Guilt by Association
by PsychedelicCowgirl
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy trip. A short, uneventful stage ride to Denver. When are things ever easy or uneventful for the Mavericks?
1. Chapter 1

**_Bart's Story_**

 _Leaving Miller's_ _Crossing._ _Arriving Denver the 29_ _th_ _. Jim with me. Be nice_.

I looked the message over wondering if there was anything else I needed to say or elaborate on before quickly deciding it was fine the way it was. They do charge by the letter. Sighing, I passed the paper over to the clerk. "It's goin' to Bret Maverick care of the Denver Palace hotel."

The man nodded and began to tap out the message as I went to sit back down and continue to wait for the 2:00 stage to pull out.

"Do you suppose he'll be terribly annoyed by my presence?"

I glanced at the man beside me. There wasn't much expression on his face, but the devilish glint in his eye was unmistakable. Not that I was surprised, the glint was something one often saw when James Buckley, more commonly known as Dandy Jim Buckley, was concerned.

The he in question was my brother, Bret. Yes, the same Bret the telegram was for, and I should probably go ahead and add that my name is Bart, also Maverick. Simply put Bret and Jim don't get along real well, and at the moment, Bret was blissfully unaware Buckley was traveling with me. Now back to the question, would Bret be annoyed? "Probably," I answered. "But he'll be alright. Just don't steal anything from him and don't get him thrown in jail."

Dandy suddenly looked a little heartbroken. "You do take all the fun out of things, old boy."

See, Jim is a friend of mine, and Bret . . . well, enemy seems too strong a word, but it's safe to say Bret doesn't count Jim as a friend. Honestly, I can't blame Bret for his feelings. The first time they met, Jim tried to cheat him at cards. That alone can turn Bret against a man pretty fast. The second time they met up, Jim managed to unload a few thousand dollars of stolen counterfeit money on Bret. If that wasn't bad enough, the few days Bret sat in a jail cell waiting for that mess to get cleared up didn't improve his view of Jim. And that's not the only time Bret's been in jail because of Dandy.

Knowing all this, a person might wonder why I call Jim a friend. Well, it helps that he's never stolen anything from me, he's never tried to cheat me, and I've never been in jail because of him. Don't get me wrong, it pays to keep an eye on him, but for some reason he's never been as underhanded with me as he has Bret. But like I said, you do have to watch him.

As the nickname implies, Jim's a dandy, even by my standards and both me and Bret are rather fastidious ourselves. He is also a conman and a cheat who tends to look out only for himself. And all this is wrapped up with a nice English accent. Again, some might wonder about my choice of friends, but the truth is, I've been in some pretty tight spots with Jim before, and for all his faults, he's always come through when it really mattered.

"What do you have against him anyway?" I asked, genuinely curious. My brother's been my best friend all my life. We don't have to share all the same friends, but it would be nice if the two of them could get along, at least when I was around.

"I can't say really," Buckley replied resting both hands on the top of his walking stick, a pensive expression on his face.

"I think you enjoy gettin' a rise out of him." Jim was well aware of how Bret felt about him, and he always appeared to be completely unaffected by my brother's often hostile attitude.

Jim grinned in a way that confirmed my suspicions were at least partially correct. "It's just so terribly tempting at times."

"That's why I had to warn him with the telegram," I said, gesturing to the smirk plastered on Jim's face.

Jim sighed dramatically. "Yes, but it does rather ruin the surprise."

I'm pretty sure that if Bret wasn't so obvious about how much Dandy annoyed him, Jim would back off some. Not that I think either one of them is going to change anytime soon. "I told him to be nice. That goes for you too."

"Well, I can't make any promises."

I opened my mouth to reply when the stage driver stuck his head in. "You boys ready to move out?"

I decided to hold off on trying to talk Jim into behaving until we were on our way to Denver and followed the driver outside. He threw our bags up top and it was only a few minutes later we were on our way.

Stagecoaches are funny things. A ride can be really good or really bad, and there isn't much that separates the two. This day was shaping up to be a good ride, though. It was a sunny, late spring day; winters chill was gone for good, but summer's heat hadn't yet shown up. It had rained the day before, which meant we didn't have to worry about eating too much dust, but it hadn't rained so much that mud was a problem. The best part was for right now me and Jim were the only passengers, and passengers are really what can make or break a trip. In my life I've had everything from charming young ladies and men who can give you a good poker game, to stuffy old maids and do-gooders who are all set to reform me. I should probably add that the reason some folks seem to think I need to be reformed is because I'm in the family business, and the Maverick family business is poker.

When I say poker is the family business, I mean that literally. I play poker for a living, just like my father, my brother, my uncle, and my cousin. A lot of people take that to mean we're gamblers, and while the name is often given to me, it's not really accurate. As a matter of fact, my ole pappy would probably skin me alive if he ever found out I was gambling. See, Pappy taught me poker, and when played right there is very little gambling involved in the game. I was taught to play honest too. Pappy _would_ skin me alive if he found out I was cheating anybody. That's not to say I can't cheat. My pappy's the best that's ever been and he knows every trick in the book, something he passed along to me and Bret. He also passed along very specific instructions for when that knowledge was to be used. Usually that's to teach someone who is already cheating a lesson. Otherwise, we always play straight.

Anyway, for the last few years, Bret and I have been traveling around earning our living at poker tables and avoiding actual work as much as possible. It's a good life most of the time, and more often than not, Bret and I travel together. As I said before, Bret's been my best friend my whole life, so traveling together usually works out well, but Bret is the older brother. It's a role he takes very seriously, too seriously at times, and every once in a while, I need a break from big brother and his mother-henning. One of those occasions happened about five months ago and we'd gone our separate ways for a while with plans to meet back up in Denver. I'd been on my way to do just that when I'd run into Jim and he, without any real invitation, had decided to come along. So now we were on our way to Denver, and I was left hoping both he and Bret would behave themselves.

XXXXXXX

It was supposed to take a little over two days to reach Denver from the little town of Miller's Crossing we'd set out from. The first day and a half was uneventful. Jim and I remained the only passengers, and the travel was about as mundane as a trip could be. Mundane to the point that I was wishing we did have other passengers, no matter who it was. I like Dandy fine, but there's only so much you can talk about and so much poker you can play before you're ready for something else to happen. One day I'll remember to be careful what you wish for.

The second day started off quietly too. It was still just me and Buckley traveling, so I pulled the cards back out. There wasn't much else to do so I decided to teach Jim how to play poker the way me and Bret do when it's just the two of us. We cheat. We started doing that when we were little as a way to practice all the tricks Pappy taught us but told us never to use against honest men. For some reason we never stopped playing with each other that way and now it's an unspoken rule that the dealer gets to cheat. Naturally, Jim took right to this new method of play, and the morning passed quickly.

We were about thirty miles outside of Denver when the stage pulled into a way station for fresh horses. I was glad to be on the last leg of the journey. A stage can be better than horseback at times, but it never has been and never will be the easiest way to travel. There's something about just sitting for that long that can wear a body out, and there's nothing fun in the almost constant jarring.

"You boys should have about fifteen minutes before we're ready to pull out," the driver said as he hopped to the ground. "You got any needs I suggest you see to them quick. Mrs. Burton might have coffee inside if you want to ask."

I stiffly climbed out of the stage and stretched. It felt good to be able to stand straight again after sitting for so many hours. Obviously, this wasn't a stop that was going to allow for much leisure time, but I decided to try and get the coffee out of Mrs. Burton. We'd had a hurried breakfast around sunup and I could use something else in my stomach. I could use a smoke too and lit up a cigar as Jim joined me outside the coach. About that time a man came out of the station. He was about fifty with graying hair, and I assumed he was Mr. Burton.

"You two the only ones today?" he asked.

"That's right," Jim replied.

A grin broke out across his face. "Well, the last bit of the trip ought to be a mite more pleasant for you than the first part was." He offered no other explanation, but jerked his thumb towards the door. "Janet's got coffee and sandwiches inside and the facilities are out back."

"Thank you," I managed to get out before Burton rushed off to help the driver change out the team.

"What do you suppose he meant by that?" Jim asked.

"I don't know. But I plan on getting some of that coffee before climbing back in that coach." I continued my walk inside but silently ran the man's statement through my head. I had no idea how the trip would improve. I knew the roads wouldn't get any better, and while coffee and a sandwich would be appreciated, it wouldn't ruin or redeem the trip. I didn't have to wonder long. As soon as I entered the house, I knew exactly what Burton had meant.

Two women were seated at the table when we entered. I assumed the older one in the calico was Mrs. Burton. The other was a young lady who appeared to be in her early twenties and had to be the reason our trip was about to improve.

Before I could think much on the young lady, Mrs. Burton stood up. "If you gentleman want something to eat you'd best hurry. Zeke takes his schedule seriously and he hates being held up for any reason. You just go ahead and sit and I'll have you a plate in moment."

"Thank you, ma'am," I replied.

"This is Miss Charity Moss," Mrs. Burton explained as she poured coffee for us. "She'll be riding the rest of the way to Denver with you."

"Bart Maverick, Miss Moss," I said barely beating Jim to the table and Miss Moss. I told you he was sneaky; it would be just like him to beat me to the girl even though he knew I'd seen her first. Not that my efforts did that much good. Jim was right on my heels and Miss Moss was also quickly introduced to James Buckley.

Burton was right I decided as I sat down to eat the sandwich Mrs. Burton had given me. The trip had just gotten more pleasant, and it was obvious Jim agreed with me. About halfway through the sandwiches Miss Moss got up from the table and Jim looked over at me. "I saw her first," I told him before he could say anything.

"Maybe so, old boy, but she's not really your type."

"What's that mean?"

"She's a lady." I raised an eyebrow and Dandy rushed to explain. "I mean a real, proper lady. Almost aristocratic if you will."

"We have thirty miles to Denver. Thirty miles in that stage; just the three of us. Why don't we let the young lady decide for herself?"

"Very well," Jim said that familiar smirk coming to his face. "If you think you're up for the challenge."

I glanced over at Charity then back to Jim. "I am, old boy," I told him with a grin. "I most certainly am."

 **A/N: I don't own Maverick and I'm making no profit. It's just for fun.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Bret's Story:**

It all started with a telegram. My name's Maverick. Bret Maverick. First born son of Beauregard Maverick, poker player extraordinaire, and one of the most stubborn, opinionated men in the state of Texas, but mostly a good poker player. It was a skill he made sure both me and my brother learned well, and I consider myself pretty fortunate to be able to say I earn my living at a card table. It beats sitting in an office all day or punching cattle. Even though me and Brother Bart did consider ranching at one time.

Anyway, I was in my room at the Denver Palace Hotel getting dressed for what I was hoping would be a profitable night of poker when I was interrupted by a knock on the door and heard a voice call out, "Telegram, Mr. Maverick."

I was still trying to tie my tie as I opened the door. A boy of about twelve or so was waiting and offered me an envelope. I took the telegram and passed the boy a coin. His eyes lit up.

"Thanks, Mr. Maverick."

Two bits was a pretty substantial tip for delivering a telegram, but it was all I had on me and I wasn't going to send the boy away with nothing. "Don't spend it all in one place," I told him with a wink.

The boy grinned back. "Yes, sir," he replied before darting off down the hall.

I closed the door and opened the telegram, wondering if it was from Bart. I'd been expecting to hear from him for a couple of days now. It was indeed from Bart and I smiled as I read the first part. If nothing happened Bart was expecting to be here in less than two days. It had been almost five months since we'd parted ways, and frankly I was missing him. I was a little worried about him too.

Dear Brother Bart will probably never admit to this, but he is about the most accident prone man I know, or at least trouble prone. It just seems to dog him wherever he goes. It always has, ever since we were kids, and I like him being close enough for me to keep an eye on. It's not a sentiment Bart always appreciates and I know, he talks about me being a mother hen, but really, he needs someone to look after him. Besides, I was told by both our mother and our father to watch out for him, and when Beauregard Maverick tells you to do something, it's usually in your best interest to do it. Okay, the last time I saw Pappy he told both of us to look out for each other, but I figure being a big brother is a job you never grow out of and I still feel pretty protective of Bart. But mother hen or not and all protectiveness aside, I was ready to ride with Bart again and looking forward to his arrival. Then I read the second half of the telegram.

Right on the heels of good news came bad news, tragic news as far as I was concerned. _Jim with me._ I read the thing twice just to make sure I'd seen it right. Unfortunately, I had. Dandy Jim Buckley was with Bart and coming to Denver. Sighing, I wadded the paper up and tossed it on the bed before I finished getting dressed. Bart may have been a little agitated the last time I'd seen him, but I didn't think he'd been mad. Certainly not mad enough to want to put me through having to put up with Buckley.

I will never understand why Bart likes Buckley. The man is shifty, underhanded, conniving, and untrustworthy. I've never been with him when he didn't try to talk me into some grand scheme, usually one that would leave me holding the bag while he rode away with the spoils. Thankfully, I can usually see through him like a pane glass window, and then he just acts innocent and indignant that I would even suggest he would try to con me. I've never considered my brother to be gullible, but I do tend to question his judgment just a bit where Buckley is concerned, and it's led to more than one disagreement between us. To be fair, Bart seems to get a slightly different version of Buckley than I do, and that's something I really don't understand. I'm not sure what I did the first time we met that made me worth trying to con or what Bart did that made Buckley pass him up. Nor do I know why Jim continues to try and make my life miserable.

Be nice. Why was Bart telling me to be nice? I've never stolen anything from Buckley, and he's never been arrested because of me. Well, there was the one time, but it was just a couple of days, he did deserve it, and that sheriff would have caught up to him without my help. Be nice. I snorted thinking about that; I've always been nice. Maybe Bart needed to tell Jim to play nice.

Taking a breath, I banished any thoughts of Dandy Jim from my mind. I didn't have to deal with him tonight, but what I did have to do was play poker, and I didn't need Buckley getting in the way of that. Slipping my jacket on, I pocketed my derringer and went down to see what kind of talk I could have with Lady Luck tonight.

XXXXXXX

As it turned out, my lovely lady was in a very good mood, and I ended up having a pleasant, profitable, and long night. It was after sunup before I left the tables and made my way back to the hotel for breakfast before I became reacquainted with my bed. There are two kinds of people in the world, those who get up at sunrise, and those that go to bed at sunrise. I'm happy to say I'm in the latter group and like to stay there as much as possible.

The hotel was obviously a popular spot for breakfast. The place was almost full when I arrived, but I got a small table in a corner and soon had a cupful of coffee in front of me while I waited for my food. Having nothing else to do while I waited, I casually looked around the room at the other diners. The Palace isn't exactly a cheap hotel, so most of the people appeared to be well off financially, and most were men. Business men I assumed who would soon be starting their day in whatever their business was. Then there was the man across the room from me.

He was also alone, one of the few who was, and he was looking at me when my eyes found him. He dropped his eyes back down to his food and continued to eat, but I was left with an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't shake the feeling that he had been watching me, even though I told myself I was being ridiculous. He was alone, odds were he'd simply been looking at folks the same way I had, but my gut told me I was wrong. I glanced back at him and found him eating, seemingly uninterested in me, but the feeling remained.

My food arrived and I kept an eye on him as I ate. He never once made a move that could be counted as suspicious, but there was still something about him I didn't like. I tried to get as good a look at him without staring, and from what I could tell, he wasn't familiar to me. He was a pretty nondescript man, however, at least as far as I could see.

The man finished before I did and I watched out of the side of my eye as he stood, put some money on the table, and walked out of the dining room. He came close to my table as he left, but didn't so much as glance my way. But I did realize I was right about him being nondescript. He was average in most every sense of the word, average height and weight, light brown hair that was thinning on top, and a well-trimmed mustache. He was dressed well but I was willing to bet he would have looked just as ordinary dressed as a cowboy or a store clerk. I've traveled a good bit around this country, and I've met a lot of people, but I don't remember the man across the room being one of them.

I shook my head slightly after he left. I was being ridiculous; the man hadn't paid me any mind. Sure, I'd seen him looking at me, but only because I'd been doing the same thing. I didn't know him and he'd done nothing to make me think he knew me. The only thing I had was an odd feeling that something wasn't right, and I was willing to attribute that to the knowledge I was about to be subjected to the company of Dandy Jim. Even that wasn't worth worrying about now. He wasn't here yet, and it was unlikely he would get too sneaky with Bart around.

Finishing my breakfast, I stood, stifling a yawn. Maybe I just needed some sleep. I paid for my meal and made my way back upstairs. Neither the stranger nor Dandy Jim was worth thinking about at the moment.


	3. Chapter 3

The battle for Miss Moss' attention began before we even got back in the coach with James offering to escort Miss Moss outside. Well, I'm not one to make things hard for a lady so I allowed Dandy to walk with her and help her into the coach. Before he climbed in behind her, I grabbed his arm.

"James?" I asked. I have never heard Dandy refer to himself as James.

"It is my name."

"And my name's Bartley, but I ain't never introduced myself that way."

"I'll have you know my mother has never called me anything but James," Jim replied as if that explained everything.

My pappy calls me Bartley too, but again, I'm not going to request anyone else do it. Rolling my eyes, I stepped in front of Jim to get in the coach first, and also claim a place beside Miss Moss. My actions earned me a slight glare from Dandy, but he soon lost it in favor of smiling at Miss Moss again.

"I was afraid I would have to make this ride alone," she said. "I certainly never expected to have the company of two such fine looking gentlemen."

She smiled coyly at both of us and I got the distinct impression that Miss Moss was well aware of what Jim and I were about to do and that she was enjoying it.

"I certainly never expected to have the pleasure of such a lovely lady," I said. "I was afraid I was gonna be stuck with Jim over there all the way to Denver."

"Believe me, old boy, no one is more pleased by our change in fortune than I am."

Charity smiled again; a lovely sight. "You're English, aren't you Mr. Buckley?"

"Indeed I am."

"And where are you from, Mr. Maverick?"

"Texas, ma'am. And you can just leave it at Bart. I hear Mr. Maverick and I start looking around for my pappy."

She laughed, a sound that was every bit as delightful as her smile. "And you must call me Charity. I'm not going to be the only one here being addressed formally."

The coach lurched then as the driver urged the horses on and Charity slid over, bumping into my shoulder. "Excuse me, Mr. Mav . . . Bart."

"Think nothing of it. It's a hazard of stagecoach travel," I told her with a smile; ignoring the agitated look Jim gave me.

Once we were on our way, the battle began in earnest. I say battle but it was really nothing more than a friendly competition. Jim took on the role of the perfect English gentleman; employing all the style he'd been taught since childhood in order to survive proper London society. That's the way he told it anyway. Meanwhile, I slipped into the more simple mannerisms of the Texas country boy. The eventual winner would depend on whether Charity preferred the more dapper aristocrat or the small town boy. The longer things went on the more I was convinced Charity did know what was going on and was enjoying it just as much as Jim and I were.

Charity herself was a delight. She was shorter than either me or Jim, but taller than most girls. She wore her reddish-blonde hair pinned up but a few curls hung around her face and her bright blue eyes always seemed to be dancing with excitement. She told us she was from Philadelphia and had been living in St. Louis for the last five years. She was on her way to Denver to spend some time with an aunt that had been sickly the past few months and confessed that the frontier was still very new to her.

I told her about Little Bend and the ranch I had grown up on. Well, it's technically a ranch, but not in the way most people think about ranches. We always kept animals growing up, chickens, horses, a milk cow, a few beef cows; sometimes a hog or two. We kept the place running pretty well, but poker has always been the Maverick men's true love. There have been times we've honestly tried to do something else, but we always end up going back to poker. That fact worked out particularly well for me today because Charity seemed absolutely fascinated by my being a professional card player.

Dandy must have sensed he was falling behind once we got on the subject of poker because he soon jumped in. I can't say what Jim would call his profession and I'm not sure he can really say either. He must not have wanted to tell Charity he was a conman because he claimed the title of gambler too. Not strictly true, but it was a title he could easily claim. He may not be Maverick good, but he's better than average.

Once Jim got into the conversation, he more or less took control and acted the perfect English gentleman. Charity didn't seem to mind, however. In fact, she was almost spellbound with Jim's tales of the pressures and privileges that came from being part of London's social circles.

Jim swears his father is a baron or something like that, and maybe one day I'll find out if half the things he claims about his family are true. Bret thinks Jim has embellished his history a little, but I'm inclined to believe him, mostly because the story has never changed. Liars often have a hard time keeping all their lines straight, but the story Jim was telling now was the same one I'd always heard. Although Charity did seem to get a little cleaner version than the one I'd heard before.

"What made you came to America, James?" Charity asked.

James, as he still insisted on calling himself, smiled. "As the younger son, I'll receive no real title. I don't have the responsibilities and obligations my brother has. What better way to enjoy that freedom than exploring the wild, untamed frontiers of America."

I'll admit it was hard to keep a straight face when I heard that. It seemed the cleaner version Charity was getting wasn't going to include the part about Jim's voluntary exile to avoid the army commission or arranged marriage his father had threatened him with when his shenanigans had started causing more trouble than the baron could handle. I raised an eyebrow at Jim and he gave me an almost imperceptible shrug. The James Buckley Miss Moss was being introduced to was almost all virtue and no vice. I could only imagine what Bret's reaction to all of this would have been.

"I do envy you both," Charity said looking between us. "I was nervous making this trip to see Aunt Mary, and the two of you run off to wherever you please, whenever you want to."

"It's a life that has its moments," Jim told her with a smile.

"I would love to be that free, but I can't imagine ever having the fortitude . . . ." Charity trailed off as the coach started to unexpectedly slow. "Why are we stopping?" she asked.

I didn't say anything but shared a look with Jim. There were only a couple of reasons I could think of for an unexpected stop, and none of them were good. I could tell Jim was thinking the same way, and our fears were confirmed when a gruff voice that did not belong to our driver demanded we get out of the coach.

Charity gripped my arm, her eyes wide. "Is this a robbery?"

"Most likely," I said being completely honest.

She gasped.

"Just do whatever they tell you and give them whatever they want."

"But . . . ."

"Bart's right, my dear," Jim added. "Don't give them a reason to get nervous."

"Throw that scatter gun down and don't get brave," the voice called out again.

I assumed he was talking to the driver and hoped the man was doing what he was told. I wasn't looking forward to losing my wallet, but I really didn't want this to get messy. Besides, I would still have the thousand dollar bill I kept pinned in my coat. I know Jim keeps a little something hidden too. If no one lost their head, we would probably come out of this all right.

"Hurry up," the voice called again right before the door of the coach was jerked open.

Jim climbed out first and helped Charity down, and then I joined them. The driver had also gotten out of his seat and looked none too happy about what was going on.

There were two men I realized once we were all out. One was about average size, and that was about all I could tell about him with his face covered and his hat pulled down low. He hadn't said a word yet. The one doing all the talking stood out a little more; every bit as tall as me, but quite a bit heavier. It looked like it was mostly muscle too. He wasn't the kind I was inclined to argue with, especially when he had a gun pointed at me. The odd thing was they didn't appear to be in a hurry. In fact, now that we were outside, it seemed like they weren't sure what to do.

For almost a full minute we all stood there. It was finally Jim who broke the silence. "May we help you, gentlemen?"

Leave it to Jim to say something like that, but his words broke whatever spell we all seemed to be under. Big and burly swung his gun towards Jim. "Shut up," he growled.

Jim wisely obeyed, but then the driver started. "If this is a robbery get on with it. I doubt you'll get much but I have a schedule to keep . . . . "

The man never got to finish. He was interrupted by a .45 and immediately hit the ground. Charity screamed as his body fell, and I couldn't help but cuss the man's stupidity. His bravado had just cost him his life, and I no longer had any hope of this ending well. Not only had a man been killed, it had taken very little for the man to pull the trigger. Obviously, killing wasn't new or all that distasteful to him.

The smaller of the robbers finally spoke. "He ain't gonna like that."

"Couldn't be helped," the bigger one replied. He slowly looked the three of us over. "Now, which one is Maverick?"

This wasn't just a robbery I realized.

"That one," Charity said, pointing to me.

I tried not to take offense at Charity pointing me out. She'd never been in this situation before, and we had told her to do what they said.

"Who's the other one?"

"A friend. His name's Buckley."

"Weren't supposed to be two of them."

Charity stiffened beside me. "Well, what did you want me to do? There was no way to get rid of him."

It was then I realized something else. Miss Moss wasn't who she had claimed to be. I glanced over at Jim and found him watching me with a look that was something between sympathy and how-do-you-get-in-these-messes.

The big man sighed. "What are we supposed to do with him?"

"It seems everyone is irritated by my presence," Jim mumbled.

"Shut up," the man snapped as his gun found Jim again. "Him I got to keep alive, but you're just in the way."

Once more Jim proved he wasn't stupid and kept any more remarks to himself.

"You think we should go ahead and take care of him?" the man asked Charity.

Charity seemed to seriously consider that, and for a moment I was afraid Jim was about to meet his end. She finally shook her head. "Better not. Just bring him too. If we end up having to kill him it will be just as easy to do it there as here."

Jim looked uneasy at the flippant way they were discussing his life, and I couldn't blame him. It's unsettling to realize there are people who can kill that easily, but at least it was a reprieve. And a reprieve is a chance. Right now I was more concerned with where they were about to take us, and just what they wanted or needed me for. One look at the driver's body talked me out of asking any questions, though. I didn't think anyone would be inclined to give me any answers anyway.

The big man pointed his gun at me again. "Over there," he said motioning to the other man. As I said, I don't argue with loaded guns, so I went.

The man tied my hands behind my back and covered my eyes with a blindfold. Judging from what I could hear, Jim was treated the same way. A beefy hand grabbed my arm then and I assumed the big man was back by me. My guess was confirmed when he spoke again.

"Charity, put the smart mouth on your horse and you ride with Jack."

He then dragged me over to another horse and "helped" me get on it. "Is he really a friend?" he asked once I was on the horse.

"Yes."

"Then you best behave yourself. You try anything, I'll kill him."

I remembered how easily he'd gunned down the driver just minutes ago. "I believe you."

A minute later we were moving. Going to God only knew where.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Bret's Story_**

The day Bart's stage was set to arrive dawned clear. I only know this because I saw it before I went to bed, but when I woke up early that afternoon the day was still clear and warm. It was a good day for traveling, and I had no reason to think anything was amiss but three o'clock came and went with no stage coming in. I didn't think too much of it at first, things can happen, but by four thirty, I was starting to wonder.

That uneasy feeling I'd had since seeing my "average" friend hadn't quite left, but I'd mostly been ignoring it. I hadn't seen him again, and my luck had been running good and holding steady. I'd convinced myself I had overreacted about the man and my uneasiness was due to Buckley's impending arrival. I was now thinking that had been a mistake. I had no idea what the connection between the man and Bart's stage could be, or if there was one, but something told me not to ignore the feeling any longer.

It was almost six by the time I went down to the overland office, and I was a little anxious when I walked in. The feeling wasn't helped any when I saw the agent behind the counter. His greeting was cordial and most people may not have seen anything, but I know how to read people, and this man was troubled about something. It could have been personal, but given the overdue stage and my own uneasiness, I doubted it.

I smiled, pushing my own anxieties aside. "Evenin'. My brother was supposed to come in on the stage today. Heard anything about what's causin' the delay?"

The look I received told me the man was about to tell me something I didn't want to hear. "Hate to tell you, mister, but it ain't coming in anytime soon."

"I beg your pardon?"

The man shifted uncomfortably. "The nearest way station is only about thirty miles away. We usually hear if there's some kind of delay. Well, after a couple of hours with no word, the sheriff went out looking for it."

"Find it?"

He nodded. "About twelve miles outside of town."

"And?"

The man didn't answer right away. By the time he did I was properly worried. "I think it might be best if you ask the sheriff about this. He can tell you more than I can."

I didn't waste any more time with the man but hurried to the sheriff's office. I hadn't gotten much information but what little I did have left me feeling off kilter, and more than worried. All I could do was wonder about what kind of mess Bart had gotten into this time. He is the man who can barely cross the street without getting into trouble. Or maybe Jim had created the problem. God knew he was more than capable of that. If my brother was in trouble because of anything Buckley had done, I just might have to kill him. Buckley that is, not Bart.

When I got to the sheriff's office I was met by another man who looked like he had a burden. Except the stage agent had looked nervous; worried. The sheriff looked disgruntled and irritated.

"Sheriff?"

The man nodded. "Mark Jacobs. What can I do for you?"

"I was told you were the man to see about the stage."

Jacobs sighed. "Unfortunately, that's true. There's not much to tell, though."

I smiled. "What can you tell me?"

The sheriff leveled me with a look. "May I ask your interest in the matter, Mr. . . . ?"

"Maverick. Bret Maverick." I offered my hand which the man begrudgingly took. "My brother was supposed to be on that stage."

The sheriff sighed again. "Sit down, Mr. Maverick."

I sat. "So what can you tell me? Was there some kind of accident?"

"No. No accident." He leaned back in his chair. "I'm not really sure what's goin' on. There's about thirty miles between here and the way station. When nothin' was heard about it I headed that way. Found it about halfway between here and there, empty. No one around except the driver, and he'd been shot."

I grimaced, understanding why the others had been upset. "Dead?"

"Not yet. Doctor ain't givin' good odds on his chances though."

"What about the passengers?"

"Like I said; they weren't there. I did poke around a little, but couldn't find anyone or anything."

"That's not it is it?" I didn't mean to sound irritated but knew I did, and I could see the sheriff didn't appreciate it.

"No, Mr. Maverick, that's not it. There was a man dying in front of me; I thought he might appreciate me getting him to a doctor. Also, it's been my experience that running off on your own when you don't know where you're going or what you may meet up with isn't the best idea. I plan on going back out there in the morning with a couple of men and see what we can find. Gotta be an answer out there somewhere."

"You think the passengers were taken?"

"You'd better hope so. If not . . . well, I think at this point, kidnapping would be the better outcome for them."

"Why would they resort to kidnapping?" I agreed with the sheriff that kidnapping was preferable to killing, but what was the point? The Mavericks aren't known for having money, and despite Buckley's claims about his family, it didn't seem likely anyone would try to get a ransom for him either. If it were anyone else there would be no need for the two of them.

"I don't know; that's one of the things I'm trying to find out," Jacobs snapped. It was fast becoming apparent the sheriff wasn't happy to have me in his office. "It may not make sense," he continued. "But for the moment I'm having to go on what I saw this afternoon, and that's the way things look."

"I'm just lookin' for my brother, Sheriff."

"I can appreciate that, Mr. Maverick. All I'm lookin' for is a kidnapper and a possible murderer. I don't have nearly enough information to answer even half the questions I got much less your's. Now, if you doubt my ability to do my job, you are more than welcome to join my investigation in the morning. If you want to be deputized, that is. If not, would you mind letting me do my job, and I'll be sure to tell you as soon as I actually find something out."

Yep, the sheriff was definitely a man with a burden, and I was quickly becoming part of it.

I have mixed feelings about lawman. As a general rule, I try to avoid them. Like most people, they tend to see poker players as gamblers and gamblers as cheaters. It's bothersome when anyone thinks that way, but lawman can actually make life difficult for us, very difficult if they want to. It's usually best to keep your distance and try not to do anything to draw attention to yourself or give them a reason to seek you out. Right now, I wasn't succeeding in doing that. I think I was more like a thorn in his side.

For the time being, I had no reason to doubt the sheriff was a competent man or that he would fail to do his job. I also wasn't finding out anything about Bart. I figured it was in my best interest to leave the sheriff to his work and see what I could find out on my own. Leaving him alone now might also make him more open to any questions I might have in the future too.

Smiling I stood up. "I'd appreciate that, Sheriff. Thanks you for your time."

The sheriff nodded. "Mr. Maverick."

I left the sheriff's office and started back to my hotel, lighting a cigar as I walked. I went through everything the sheriff had told me again. It didn't take long. There really wasn't much. The stage had been stopped, the driver shot, and the passengers taken. I briefly considered riding out to the area myself and see if any clues had been missed, but quickly discarded the idea. It was all but dark now. I wouldn't be able to see anything the sheriff hadn't been able to see, and I could possibly disturb something important stumbling around in the dark. The lack of information had been irritating before, but thinking about it now I realized the sheriff had likely done everything he could for the moment.

Arriving back at the hotel, I threw out what was left of my cigar and went into the dining room for some supper. There would be no poker for me tonight; there was no way I could keep my mind on a game with Bart missing. I doubted there would be a lot, if any, sleep, either. If I was going to be up all night I might as well have a good meal. Maybe it would help me think and make some sense out of Bart's apparent kidnapping.

Kidnapping. I found myself studying on that word while I ate. Why would someone want to kidnap Bart? Again, I couldn't convince myself a ransom would be involved. Jim? That didn't make sense either. Buckley has enemies, I'm sure; probably some pretty unscrupulous ones. Men who could do something like this easily. But why bother? Why not just shoot him and be done with it? Given the driver's state, it seemed they had no qualms about killing. Someone else entirely maybe? I just didn't know.

Having no more answers than I'd had before, I finished my supper and went back up to my room. I lit another cigar and started pacing the room. The same questions kept coming to mind, and no matter how many times I went over everything I couldn't find any reason to this. Nothing about this made any sense, and I knew my mind wouldn't rest until I got some answers. The bad news was, at the rate I was figuring things out, it looked to be a long night. A really long night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Bart's Story**

The ride was made in silence. I'd been warned against talking and I assumed Jim had too. None of our new friends seemed big on talking either. I never heard the big man say a word. Charity and the other man did exchange a few words, but they were always spoken in such a low tone I couldn't understand anything, meaning I was given no clue as to where we were going.

As best as I could tell, we rode for an hour or so before stopping. I heard Big and Burly dismount, and a second later I was yanked off my horse with about as much ceremony as I'd been shoved on to it. He was nice enough to let me regain my footing before he started shoving me along, however, and he allowed me to steady myself again when I tripped over the threshold of the cabin we entered. I was then forced down on a chair and it was only after my hands had been securely, very securely, tied behind me that the blindfold was removed.

I blinked a few times to adjust my eyes to the light and then looked around, trying to get my bearings. It was a basic, two-room cabin. The room we were in was a combination kitchen/sitting area; the other appeared to be a bedroom. I was tied up in the sitting area, and Jim was beside me, currently being trussed up just like I was. Both our captors were in the room but as soon as he was sure I wasn't going anywhere, the bigger man left. I hadn't seen Charity since we'd arrived.

I didn't say anything until Jack wandered over to the stove and got a pot of coffee going. I finally looked over at Jim.

"Any idea what this is about?" I asked him softly hoping not to be heard. Of the two, Jack appeared to be the more reasonable, but it didn't seem wise to draw any undue attention to myself.

He shook his head. "I haven't a clue, old boy. Neither of mine were inclined to tell me anything. Although, I would hazard to say it has something to do with you . . . Maverick."

I grimaced. Jim was right, whatever this was about it was because of me. I was the one they had been looking for. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

Jim merely shrugged. "I've gotten you into some jams in the past."

"One or two." I was glad to see he was taking this in stride, especially considering they had already talked about killing him. One thing about Jim, he's not really the panicky kind.

"But how _do_ you get into these situations?"

I kind of gave him a look but chose not to answer that, mostly because I didn't have an answer. Pappy and Bret have asked the same question in the past, more than once, and I've never had an answer for them either. I just seem to have a gift for being in the right place at the right time, or maybe it's the wrong place at the wrong time.

Any more talk was cut off by our large friend entering the cabin again; this time Charity was with him. "The two of you shut up," he growled before pointing at Jim. "Especially you. I still haven't decided what I'm going to do with you."

"You aren't going to do anything yet," Charity said. "Not until he gets here." She looked at both of us and studied us for a long minute before she picked up a carpet bag the big man had carried in. "I'm going to change." She then stood on her tiptoes and whispered something in his ear.

I didn't hear what was said but it was obvious he didn't like it. He mumbled something back then sent me and Jim a glare before he joined Jack at the table while Charity disappeared into the other room.

A few minutes later Charity came back, dressed in much simpler clothing then she had been before. She started cooking while Jack and the other man talked to one another in low tones. Charity didn't say much, but I did notice that every once in a while she would stop what she was doing to listen to the two men and a couple of times she even added something to the conversation. But again, nothing I could make out.

While all this was going on, Jim and I did as we were told. I don't know what was going through his mind, but my thoughts eventually turned to Miss Charity Moss. Truthfully, I was disappointed, maybe even slightly offended, she wasn't what she had claimed to be. How could a cute, young woman like Charity end up in cahoots with men like Jack and whatever his name was? At my age, I should know that woman can lie too and they can be just as conniving as men, and I do, but I was still having a hard time accepting Charity had gotten the best of me with her act. What a fine act it had been. She'd been so sincere in the stage coach, taking in everything I had said with wide-eyed innocence. Looking at her now, it was hard to see any innocence in her.

I know I have a reputation for falling for girls too quick, and I'll admit it's pretty well earned. It's not something I intentionally set out to do, though. Not that I had fallen in love with Charity – I'm not that bad – but I had been pretty taken with her. Was that why I hadn't sensed something wasn't right about her? Had I gotten too caught up with how beautiful and attentive she was? Too determined to make sure she preferred my company over Jim's? If Bret were here he'd say that's exactly what had happened. He'd be right too. I sighed, irritated with myself.

"Don't take it too hard, Bart. We all have our little lapses in judgment."

I chuckled without much humor although I was amused Jim had guessed what I'd been thinking. "Thanks for the encouragement, Dandy."

"It's the least I can do."

There was a tight smile on his face but I knew he wasn't seeing the humor in all this either. I sighed again and fell silent hoping that soon someone might tell me what was going on. If they were hoping to get a ransom for me, they had missed their mark. Mavericks don't have that kind of money.

The big man finally pushed away from the table and lumbered over to where we were tied. I learned during supper he went by Bryce and he stared at both of us for a while before he spoke. "I'm going to untie you," he said pointing at me. "You'll have a chance to go out back if you need to and Charity will get you some supper. You do anything that even looks like you might be thinking about running off or starting trouble," he pointed at Jim, "I put a bullet in his head. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." I saw no need to argue. Even if Jim weren't involved, I wouldn't be able to go up against Jack and Bryce unarmed and have a hope of coming out on top.

Bryce turned to Jim. "You get the same offer; same conditions."

"And a fair offer it is too."

Jim's about as big a coward as I am. Meaning neither one of us is big on heroics, and neither one of us are usually inclined to start something when we're outnumbered and outgunned. I hoped that was the impression we were giving Bryce anyway.

Bryce looked to Jack and motioned towards Jim. "Start with him."

After he'd been untied Jim stood up stiffly grimacing some as he rolled his shoulders. My own shoulders started aching just watching him. My arms had been in this position too long, and I couldn't wait to be able to stretch them out.

"Move," Jack barked holding his gun on Jim.

"Don't forget you have to come back, Dandy," I said before Jack could push Jim out the door. I was smiling but completely serious. It's not that I don't trust Jim, but . . . well, he's not the heroic kind and he's not stupid, but he does have a strong sense of self-preservation. It was more a gentle reminder that for the moment I was still tied up and incapable of doing much of anything but getting shot.

Jim grinned. "Naturally."

Jack and Dandy left and Bryce looked at me. "Don't worry none, Maverick. Even if he does try something you'll be safe. I told you, we need you and the safer the better." He suddenly gave me a wicked grin. "He makes a wrong move out there Jack'll just shoot his knees off."

My stomach lurched. I believed Bryce meant exactly what he'd just said, and the mere thought made me a little sick. Thankfully I heard no gun shots and it couldn't have been more than five minutes later that Jim was back, kneecaps still intact.

As soon as they returned Jim was marched over to the table and I saw Jack securing him with a pair of handcuffs while Bryce untied me and all but shoved me out the door. After a quick trip to the outhouse, I was once again pushed back to the cabin. I have to admit that by now I was getting pretty tired of being pushed and finally stopped just short of the cabin. I saw Bryce's eyes flash but I wasn't too worried. He'd already told me they needed to keep me alive and mostly unharmed.

"What do you want from me?" I asked. For hours now I'd been led around, tied up, and left completely clueless as to what was going on.

"It's none of your concern," Bryce growled. He finished the statement by jabbing me in the ribs with his rifle. "Now shut up and get inside."

"You won't get a ransom for me," I said as I turned and started walking again.

"I really couldn't care less."

The answer left me more confused than ever, but I didn't risk any more questions. I really wasn't sure what else to ask anyway.

Once we were back inside I received my own pair of handcuffs and a bowl of the stew Charity had made. Eating with my hands cuffed together was awkward, but it beat having my arms stretched around behind me. Again, nothing was said while we ate and as soon as Jim was finished he was led back to the other side of the room, leaving me and Charity at the table alone. I made sure Bryce was occupied with Jim then turned to the girl beside me.

Charity was a puzzle for sure. With her simple shirtwaist and riding skirt, and hair now tied back in a knot and the base of her neck, she looked like a completely different woman than she had on the stage. This Charity didn't look act or look anything like a stranger to this land. In fact, she seemed quite comfortable with everything, including kidnapping.

I just couldn't figure what her role in all this was. Bryce was poison mean; he'd already proven that. Jack seemed to have a bit more decency if only a little. At least he didn't seem like a killer. I didn't think Charity was either; at least that's what I was hoping. I really didn't understand what she was.

"What's this about, Charity?"I finally asked, hoping she would give me more information than Bryce had.

"Does it really matter?"

"I think it does. What are you hoping to gain? You're not meant to kill us, and you haven't really hurt us. Why are we here? Is this about some kind of ransom?" I'd already been told but I decided to see what Charity would say.

She shook her head and I thought I saw a glimpse of the girl from the stage. "No. Money has nothing to do with it. It's about justice."

I hadn't been expecting that and it took a minute for me to respond. "Justice?" I finally sputtered out. "Justice for what?"

"I can't tell you."

"Charity . . . ."

"Bart, I can't give you details, but this has nothing to do with you."

"Except I'm the one who was kidnapped."

"Just do what you're told and you won't be hurt. He doesn't want you at all."

"Then why am I here?"

"I can't tell you. You'll find out what you need to know when he arrives."

"Who's he?"

"No one you need to be concerned about right now," Bryce said stalking up to the table and sending me a glare. "If you're feeling talkative you must have had your fill so get back over here."

Knowing I wasn't going to get any more information I stood and went back to Bryce with a sigh. Thankfully I wasn't tied to the chair again. This time my feet were tied together and I was told to sit on the floor beside Jim. By morning this position would probably be just as uncomfortable as being in the chair had been, but for now it was a nice change.

"Find out anything?" Jim asked when I was once again bound up nice and tight.

I had found out something, but I hadn't learned anything. I sighed again. "Not a thing."


	6. Chapter 6

**Bret's Story:**

The night passed slowly, and by the time the eastern sky was starting to lighten I'd come to a decision. I couldn't simply sit in my room and wait for someone to bring me word about my brother. Maybe the sheriff did know his job, and maybe he was doing all he could, but I didn't figure sitting back and waiting counted as taking care of Bart. Besides, I was going to go crazy if I didn't do something.

I had given a lot of thought as to where to begin and I had decided I needed to see that stage. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but the sheriff had said yesterday there had to be some kind of clue out there. I was hoping he was right because I didn't know where else to start looking. I was also hoping that clue would lead me to a Bart that was alive and well, or at the very least alive.

I was already dressed and headed for the sheriff's office as soon I could halfway see the boardwalk in front of me. I had every intention of riding out to the stage as soon as I could but I was going to ask the sheriff to let me ride along with him. Why? Well, I was still leery of disturbing anything that might prove helpful in locating Bart, and I figured it would be in my best interest to work with the law instead of against. Well, work with as much as I could. It wouldn't hurt to ask, and if he said no, I'd ride along behind him.

I stepped inside the office and found the sheriff busy gathering supplies and stuffing them in his saddlebags. I have to say, seeing him ready to go before the sun was even up properly was encouraging. It seemed I was dealing with a competent lawman after all; if he turned out to be reasonable too, all the better for me.

He looked up when I entered. "Can I help you?"

I was surprised there wasn't more hostility in his voice, and then it occurred to me that he didn't recognize me. I'd forgone my gambling attire today in favor of more suitable trail clothes. The Bret Maverick he'd seen yesterday in the ruffled shirt and frock coat looked a little different than the one standing in front of him now in jeans and leather vest. "Maverick, sheriff," I said with a smile as I took off my hat.

His face clouded, the hostility I'd expected before coming in full force. "What do you want?"

"How many people were on that stage?"

"What?"

"How many people were on the stage when it was held up?"

"Is that important?"

"It could be."

"Three," he huffed. "According to Burton. He runs the way station."

That meant Bart, Jim, and one other person. I still couldn't figure why anyone would have kidnapped either Bart or Jim, so it had to be about the third passenger. The question now was why had they bothered with that many people? It was obvious, given the condition of the driver; they weren't above killing, so why take along anyone that wasn't necessary? It seemed that would be more risk than it was worth.

"Sheriff," I asked doing my best to sound conversational. "Would you mind if I rode along with you to look at the stage?"

Jacobs' eyes were hard. "Yes."

"Why? What will it hurt?"

"I'm not in the habit of taking along visitors when I'm investigating a crime. And I assume you're not taking me up on my offer to deputize you."

"No, I'm not. Was it a legitimate offer?"

"No."

I hadn't assumed it was, and what I said before was true, I wasn't interested in becoming a deputy. But I did need to see that stage. "I'm not interested in hampering your investigation, but I would like to ride along with you. I wanna look around myself."

"No."

I sighed. "Look, sheriff, I'm trying to cooperate with you. I could have ridden out there without talkin' to you, but I didn't. You can refuse me, but once you leave town there's nothing to keep me from following. Wouldn't you rather know where I was?"

"I could arrest you. It'd keep you out of the way and I'd know exactly where you were."

"On what charge?"

The sheriff shrugged and I thought I saw a very brief ghost of a smile cross his face. "I'd think of something."

I paused for a moment wondering how serious the man was. He could do it. It wouldn't be the first time I'd been railroaded on a trumped up charge. The question was, would he? I watched him trying to decide if he was the kind. I certainly couldn't do anything to help Bart if I was in jail. "What harm would an extra pair of eyes be?" I ventured trying to keep my voice light.

"Extra pair of eyes and an extra pair of feet; an extra horse to stomp around on stuff."

"This may shock you sheriff, but I do know a thing or two about tracking. I'd be willing to follow your lead; let you call the shots."

Jacobs suddenly sighed and put his saddlebags down. "You'd do it, wouldn't you?" he asked, facing me again. "Follow I mean."

"I would."

"Why? Why are you so interested, Maverick?"

"My brother's out there."

"I understand that, and I can understand your worry, but what do you think you can do that we can't? You know somethin' I don't know?"

For the first time since I'd met him, Jacobs didn't look like I was the last person on earth he wanted to see. His tone was now genuinely curious, and his question a fair one. I was no longer worried about getting thrown in jail and answered as honestly as I could. "I wish I could say I did, but I don't. I do know two of the people that were on that stage, however . . . ."

"Wait. What do you mean you knew two of the people on that stage?"

I nodded. "My brother, Bart, and . . . a friend. Of his."

The sheriff sat down obviously deep in thought. After a couple of minutes of silence, he looked up at me. "So two of those passengers knew each other?"

I sat down propping my arms on the sheriff's desk. "Yeah. And you said there were three. That's why I just can't figure a kidnapping. They can't have taken Bart for ransom, and I can't see anyone holding Jim for ransom either. If they were only after one person why bother with the other two?" The sheriff shook his head a little. He looked disgruntled, but I no longer felt that it was directed at me. "Nothing about this makes any sense, Sheriff, but we both know that the sooner they're found the better."

After a long pause, Jacobs sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Alright, Maverick. I'm willing to let you ride along, but just to the stage. You ain't following no farther."

"Fair enough." For now, that was plenty, and I didn't think it wise to push my luck with the man.

"We'll meet you at the livery in fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, Sheriff."

"Don't thank me," Jacobs grumbled as he stood. "I have some more questions for you."

XXXXXXX

I was waiting at the livery when Jacobs arrived with two other men. One looked to be about my age and was introduced as Will Farris. Farris was a former army scout, now a deputy sheriff and according to Jacobs one of the best trackers around; he also looked more sullen than the sheriff normally did. The other was Earl Hutchinson, also a deputy although he couldn't have been a day over twenty. Hutch as he insisted I call him had an easy grin and seemed eager and willing to do whatever was asked of him. I wondered how the boy kept up his perky demeanor having to work with Jacobs and Farris. Nothing about the broody nature of the other men seemed to bother him or dampen his enthusiasm.

Once brief introductions were made, we mounted up and rode out of town in the direction of the way station. Farris and Hutch rode ahead and the sheriff stayed with me, armed with his promised questions. He had plenty of them too. The first several miles of the ride were spent telling Jacobs everything I could about Bart and what I knew of his travel plans. By the time I'd finished Jacobs knew what I knew, and I could only hope the sheriff could make more sense out of this mess than I'd been able to. He was also nice enough to share with me what he knew, including the name of the third passenger. Not that it helped much; the name Charity Moss meant nothing to me.

"So tell me, Maverick," Jacobs said after he'd finished questioning me about Bart. "How does a man who earns his living playing cards know about tracking?"

Despite our first meeting, I was starting to like the sheriff. He could be gruff at times, but I had a feeling he knew his job and knew it well. I also had a feeling he was taking this kidnapping business very seriously. Slightly abrasive or not, it's hard to dislike a man who could very well end up saving your brother's life.

"Learned in the army." I learned a lot in the army, I'd had to learn if I wanted to stay alive.

"War?"

I nodded. "And afterward. Altogether I was in one army or another over five years."

Jacobs looked over at me and cocked an eyebrow but didn't comment. He didn't have to, I knew what he was thinking. There was a time I would have been grateful for his discretion, but I'd gotten over that. Those years don't bother me like they once did. "The Confederate government thought me and Bart would make good soldiers; Bart was barely old enough to join when we were drafted. Still, we did all right for the first three years or so, then the Yankees got us. They made sure we got to enjoy all the joys of Camp Douglas."

"Galvanized Yankee?"

"Yep," I answered with a smile.

"I hear that was a tough title to carry. You may know a little more than I first gave you credit for, Maverick." Jacobs called out to Farris then and rode ahead a little, ending our talk. I wasn't sure if the man had really needed to talk to his deputy, or if he was simply letting me know he didn't expect anything else from me. Either way, I was glad. Those years may not bother me like they used to, but it's still not my favorite thing to discuss.

Jacobs was right, Galvanized Yankee could be a very tough title to carry. It was the name given to Confederates who joined union ranks. Now, every one of us came out of the prison camps, and felt like we didn't have much of a choice, but Confederates tended to see us as traitors and the Yankees just flat out didn't trust us. In fact, the union had wanted us for only one reason, to help with the Indian problem in the territories. I guess they figured there was no point in letting all those able bodied prisoners just sit there when we could do something useful so they made us a deal, our freedom in exchange for service in territories with known and active hostiles.

Me and Bart ended up agreeing to two years and those two years weren't the easiest of my life. Like I said, the title pretty much made you an outcast on both sides, but I had thought and still do think it was a worthwhile trade. You'll hear a lot about Andersonville and the horror of it. I don't know anything about that; I wasn't there. I was at Douglas though, and I have to say, I can't imagine Andersonville being any worse. Medical care was almost nonexistent; there was barely enough of what they called food to keep us alive, and very little protection from the elements. Chicago winters get mighty cold too. Bart had gotten sick after a couple of weeks in there and for a few days I was sure he was going to die. I'll never forget how it felt to realize there was no one around who would much care if he did. Maybe trading my tattered gray uniform for a brand spanking new blue one had made me a traitor, there were times I'd felt like one and I hadn't even felt that strongly towards the Confederate cause. I'd joined the army because I hadn't had a choice, and later I joined the union army for the same reason.

It was all over and done with now, however. Right or wrong I'd made my choice and lived through it all. It was now just a memory and thankfully one I didn't have to spend too much time thinking about. I had more important things to worry about now anyway, like trying to find my brother.

"Maverick."

I was pulled out of musings by the sheriff's voice and looked up to realize we were approaching the coach. Farris and Hutch were about fifty feet ahead of us, and Farris was already on the ground looking around. I pulled up my horse and looked at the abandoned stagecoach. There was something surreal, almost eerie about seeing it here. No horses, no passengers, just an empty coach on the side of the road.

"Where are the horses?" I asked.

"Already been returned to the stage company. Coach will be too, as soon as we're done with it."

I urged my horse forward again. "Well, we're not finding out anything sitting back here." I was smiling as I said it, but my stomach was in knots. I wasn't sure what I was hoping to find, but I sent up a silent plea that there would be an answer somewhere.


	7. Chapter 7

**Bart's Story**

I was right about one thing; by the time the sun had come up being on the floor was every bit as uncomfortable as the chair had been. There wasn't any part of me that didn't ache, my wrists were starting to feel raw from the metal cuffs rubbing on them all night, and I hadn't slept nearly any. If it hadn't been the discomfort of the position I was in keeping me awake, it had been the constant nagging questions running through my mind. None of which I had answers for.

"What you suppose the odds of something happening today are?" Jim asked as he shifted his position some. I knew he had to be just as uncomfortable as I was.

"Your guess is as good as mine." I sighed dropping my head back against the wall. I agreed with Jim; I was ready for something to happen, anything. Sitting here, completely in the dark about what was going on was getting old. I was ready for any kind of change. "Maybe he'll get here today and tell me exactly why I'm here."

"I assume you still have no idea about who he is."

"No."

During the long overnight hours, I'd filled Jim in with what Charity had told me. He hadn't liked the explanation Charity had given any better than I did. I don't know what Charity had meant about justice, but it left me with a knot in my stomach. It sounded like a personal vendetta. That could make whoever he was even more dangerous. My only consolation was he wasn't after me, per se. But if not me, who?

The morning passed much as last night had. Again me and Jim were fed and given the chance to take care of any needs we had. I appreciated the consideration we were being given, but it also added to my confusion. It was beyond me why these people were doing their best to take care of us while keeping us prisoners. It was a piece of the puzzle that was about to drive me crazy, but again, no one seemed to care.

Jack and Bryce took turns standing guard on me and Jim throughout the morning, and I preferred it when Jack was in the cabin. Apart from the fact that he didn't seem to mind us talking to one other as long as we kept it quiet, he didn't seem to be as trigger happy as Bryce. I still well remembered the warning about kneecaps, and frankly, I'd like to keep mine. Meanwhile, Charity remained distant and quiet. She barely acknowledged me or Jim. Even Jack and Bryce were hardly spoken to, but I did catch her saying something to them once or twice. She always looked more on edge when she talked to Bryce. Not that I blamed her. The man put me on edge too.

It was getting close to noon when the something I'd been waiting for happened. Charity was again preparing a meal and Jack was at the table keeping an eye on me and Jim. Bryce suddenly came through the door. He glared at me briefly before addressing Jack and Charity. "He's coming."

I sat up straighter. Maybe it's odd I was eager to see who was responsible for my kidnapping, but I was more than ready to find out who this mysterious man was and why he had turned my life upside down.

Charity tapped Jack on the shoulder. "Go meet him."

I couldn't help but notice how Charity brightened at the news, and I felt a brief pang. I know, Charity had played a role in kidnapping me and had already shown me she wasn't who she claimed to be, but it was still a little off-putting she was excited to see this person. Then to add insult to injury, she looked my way and actually smiled.

It was about ten minutes later the cabin door opened and a man stepped inside. I wasn't really sure what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't the gentleman that had just entered. The man looked to be in his early fifties; he was dressed as a gentleman, but the skin on his face and the lines around his eyes spoke of a lifetime outside. His hair was gray and thinning some on top and he wore a mustache and goatee, and his stance told me he was definitely a man used to being in control. Penetrating blue eyes swept the cabin but he smiled when he saw Charity. Walking over to her he kissed her cheek and acknowledged Bryce with a nod before turning my way.

His eyes went between me and Jim for a moment before landing on me. "Mr. Maverick, I presume." He then looked at Jim. "And a friend. An unexpected development, but it could prove useful."

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage," I said.

"In more ways than one. Bryce, if you would free Mr. Maverick's and Mr. . . Buckley was it? Mr. Buckley's hands. There's no need for us to be uncomfortable while we discuss the matter."

Bryce looked like the last thing he wanted to do was uncuff us but did as he was told. After we'd been released the man took a seat across from Jim and me and leveled us with a look. "Boucher, Mr. Maverick. Major Boucher." He gave me a long hard look again. Long enough that I started to get uncomfortable under his gaze. He finally met my eyes and smiled slightly. "I can see the family resemblance."

"Again, sir, I'm not quite sure what you're talkin' about."

"I'm talking about your brother, Mr. Maverick. Bret, I believe the name was."

I had hoped and assumed I would feel some relief once I understood why I'd been kidnapped, but I didn't. Instead, my stomach dropped. Bret? This was all about Bret? I stared at Boucher trying to remember if I'd seen him before, if I knew him. Trying to remember if Bret had ever mentioned a Boucher, and trying to figure out why Boucher would be interested in Bret. "My – my brother?"

Boucher smiled. "Indeed." A slight look of disgust appeared. "The accent is the same too."

I didn't understand what that was about, but I didn't think too much about it. I was still wondering about Bret. "Mr. Boucher . . . ."

"Major."

"Major. Would you mind telling me why I'm here?"

Boucher made a grand display of taking off his gloves and sitting down. "Not at all, Mr. Maverick. You are here as bait."

"For my . . . brother." I was beginning to understand. Boucher had a score to settle with Bret, and I had been brought here to lure Bret to Boucher. I felt better about getting out of this, even Jim getting out, but I was now worried about Bret.

"You're very quick, Mr. Maverick."

"Why?"

Boucher considered his words before he spoke. "In the fall of '65 your brother was attached to a cavalry unit in the Arizona territory." Boucher stood and began to pace. "He was to go out on a scouting mission. He didn't. Men died on that mission; good men. That would not have happened if your brother, if the rebel turncoat, had been where he was assigned."

I stared at Boucher incredulously, wondering if the man was insane. I didn't give a lot of thought to the time I'd spent in the army anymore. It was over and done with. Of course, I'd always known there were men on both sides who didn't trust Galvanized Yankees, but Boucher seemed to go beyond simple distrust. "You think Bret was responsible for . . . . "

"A massacre. That's what it was, and I think him and the other rebels shouldn't have gotten preferred treatment. I never trusted any of them."

I didn't like how this was going. I'd been brought in to get Bret here and unfortunately, it would work. If Bret found out I was in trouble, and he had to know something was wrong by now, he would come running. I had a feeling the major wouldn't be as gentle with Bret as he'd had his boys be with me. And I will be the first to tell anyone we hadn't gotten any preferred treatment.

"What is it you want exactly?"

Boucher stopped in front of me. "I want your brother. And he is going to come here."

I rubbed my jaw. "How? Have you been in contact with him?"

"No, not yet. Soon. He'll be brought."

"By who? Me?" I asked with a smile.

Boucher's grim expression finally broke and he chuckled. "Oh, no, Mr. Maverick. If I were to let you go I'd never see you or him again, and I very much wish to see your brother. You, young man, are going stay here with me." His gaze went to Jim. "I believe this is where your friend can be of use. I was going to have Jack fetch him, but I think someone he knows might be more convincing."

I had questions about Boucher's sanity, and I was more than concerned for Bret's safety, but I still had to bite back a grin imagining Jim trying to convince Bret to go anywhere with him. Jim laughed outright at the suggestion. Looking back neither of our reactions were probably wise.

Boucher looked between the two of us. "You have me at a loss, gentleman. Did I say something amusing?"

I regained my composure reminding myself this man had kidnapped me and probably had something unpleasant in mind for my brother. He was also in complete control. "Uh, no, major, it's just . . . ." I looked over to Jim. He had regained control too.

"He won't come," Jim stated flatly. "Not if I ask him."

"Is that true?" The question was directed at me.

"Probably."

"You see," Jim continued. "Bret and I don't exactly . . . get along."

"They don't play nice together is what he means."

"Then you are not a friend of Mr. Maverick."

I exchanged a look with Dandy. "Well . . . that's one way of putting it," Jim said.

Boucher took a deep breath. Steepling his fingers he gazed at me. "What you're telling me, Mr. Maverick, is that if I send your friend here to fetch your brother he wouldn't follow him back. Even when he finds out you're in trouble?"

I suddenly didn't like the look in Boucher's eyes. "It's not that he won't come. I'm just not sure Bret's gonna believe him."

"I can almost guarantee he won't," Jim added more to me than Boucher.

"Well, I suppose if he won't come, he won't come."

I glanced at Jim, wondering where this was going. I didn't trust the man. True, we hadn't been hurt since we'd been brought here, but who trusts a kidnapper? Especially after the remarks he'd made about Bret and rebels.

Boucher sighed and turned his back to us. "This does present a problem for me, however. You see Mr. Maverick, I need your brother here. You both have informed me my plan won't work. That means I need a new plan."

I suddenly got very nervous. I didn't like the tone of Boucher's voice. I cut my eyes over to Jim and saw he looked apprehensive too. I looked back to Boucher, waiting for whatever was coming.

Boucher heaved another sigh. "I need him here, Maverick. How do you suggest I get him here?"

I saw Bryce move up alongside the major. "I don't know."

Boucher faced us again. "That's not the answer I was looking for, Mr. Maverick."

Faster than I would have given him credit for, Boucher pulled the Colt from Bryce's holster and fired. Jim and I both flinched at the sound but it took a couple of seconds for either one of us to realize what had happened. That's about how long it took me to feel the sting of the bullet anyway.

I glanced down, my fingers gravitating to the hole in the lower right side of my vest. I touched the spot gingerly and stared at the blood on my fingers in disbelief. My brain was still trying to sort out what the blood meant when pain exploded through my gut. I doubled over with a grunt and would have hit the floor had Jim not been right beside me.

Jim lowered me to the cabin floor. "Easy there, Bart." He grabbed a handkerchief from inside his jacket and shoved it against the hole in my side. "Steady, old boy. I'm sure it's nothing more than a scratch." His words may have sounded light, but I could see the worry in his eyes. I was the one feeling it too, and it certainly didn't feel like a scratch.

Every breath I took sent a knife of pain through my belly and my head started to spin, even lying flat out on the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut trying to push my way through the lightheadedness and pain.

"What precisely was this meant to accomplish?" I heard Jim ask, his tone not nearly as jovial as it had been before.

"It is merely an incentive," Boucher replied. "You didn't think you could talk Maverick into accompanying you with just your words, now you'll have some extra motivation to convince him. I've done my research. He'll come for his brother if nothing else."

"Bart?"

I forced my eyes open and found Jim over me. He looked rattled like he wasn't sure what he needed to do. It wasn't a look I was used to seeing on Dandy and despite the seriousness of the situation I had to laugh.

"Bart?" Jim's voice was sharper this time and his eyes clouded with worry.

"Get Bret."

"I can't leave you." As if to prove his point he lifted the handkerchief he had pressed to my side. I saw him grimace before putting it back down.

"He . . . won't let me die." If I was a bargaining chip I had to be alive. As long as Boucher needed Bret, he would try to keep me well. Of course I was asking Jim to lead Bret into this viper's nest, but I was hoping Jim would be able to provide enough information about what was going on to give Bret an edge when he came back. And to be honest, I was hurting. There was a part of me that just wanted my brother nearby.

"I would suggest you not tarry too long, Mr. Buckley."

I followed Jim's glare and found Boucher standing over us, gun still in hand. I wondered if Jim remembered he was expendable. I wouldn't put it past the man to go ahead and put a bullet in Jim too. I grabbed Jim's lapel and tugged at him weakly. The pain wasn't getting any easier and black was starting to dance around the edge of my vision. "Jim." Dandy turned back to me. "Go."

Jim held my gaze for a minute before nodding. "Alright." He took my hand placed it on the handkerchief he'd been holding over my wound. "Hold on, old boy. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Trusting Jim was really going, I let my eyes drift shut. As I slipped from consciousness, I found myself hoping Jim would hurry. And that Bret would believe everything he had to say.


	8. Chapter 8

**Bret's Story**

"I'm sorry about your brother, Mr. Maverick."

I glanced over at the deputy riding beside me. "It's Bret, Hutch. I ain't old enough to warrant you calling me mister." The boy had surprised me at the stagecoach this morning. I suppose I hadn't expected too much from him given his age, but he seemed to know his job. The longer I was with Jacobs and his men the more I was certain that in this case the law was actually someone who would prove helpful, even the young law. However, hearing Hutch call me mister made me feel like I was carrying around a lot more years than I actually was. That title was reserved for Pappy.

Hutch smiled. "Alright, Bret. Sorry about your brother all the same. I hope Will and Mark find something."

"Thanks. I hope so too."

The ride out to the coach had proved fruitless, at least for me. I, along with Hutch and the sheriff, had searched in and around the coach for over an hour and hadn't found much of anything. In fact, the coach itself had appeared undisturbed. All the luggage was still on top and nothing on the inside indicated three people had been stolen from it the day before. For all intents and purposes it looked as though the stage was just waiting for her passengers and driver to arrive. If it hadn't been for the fact it was sitting horseless on the side of the road, no one would guess anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

Thankfully, Farris had more success looking for tracks than the three of us had had looking for any other clues. Nearly a mile into the wooded area beside the coach he had found the tracks of four horses. He also found that someone had wiped out the tracks up to that point. That was more than enough for the sheriff to decide he had something worth pursuing and he had ridden off with Farris to see what else they could uncover. Meanwhile I had started back to town with Hutch. I hadn't forgotten the deal I'd made with the sheriff and despite not wanting to keep it, I'd held up my end without argument. I'd gotten along pretty well with the lawman all morning and saw no reason to buck him on this. When it came to me he'd already done more than he'd had to.

"I don't have a brother," Hutch continued. "But I do have two sisters. I can't imagine anything like this happenin' to either one of 'em. I'm the oldest too."

Again I looked to the boy. "How do you know I'm older? I didn't say that."

Hutch looked taken aback by the question. He shrugged. "I . . . I don't know. Guess I could just tell. You are, aren't you?"

I chuckled. "Yeah, I am. Not a lot, but enough to count. Bart fusses about me being like a mother hen."

"What we're supposed to do ain't it?"

"That's what I was always told."

Hutch suddenly got quiet and it was over a full minute before he spoke again. "Mark's really good at his job, Mr. Mav . . . Bret. So is Will. If there's anything to find, they'll find it."

"I believe that, Hutch, but I am a little impatient when it comes to my brother."

"I guess I would be too if it were Rachel or Katie missing."

"I hope you never have to find out."

Hutch got really serious looking when I said that, as serious as I'd ever seen him look and I decided quickly it didn't suit him. There was something about him that kind of made me think of Bart. I don't know why, they weren't the same age, they didn't look alike, and Bart certainly wasn't a lawman. Even so, I thought of my brother. Maybe it was the smile. Bart's got a smile that kinda lights up the whole room, and I've never really liked it when Bart get to looking too serious either.

"How'd you get to be a deputy," I asked hoping a new topic would lighten the mood a bit. I didn't like the somberness that had settled over us, and didn't particularly want that grim silence to stay with us all the way back into town. I figured if I could get Hutch chatting with me like he'd been talking with Farris on the ride out, it might help get rid of some of the worry that had been gnawing at my gut since last night. Thankfully, my tactic worked, and that familiar grin was soon back on the boy's face.

Hutch's tale lasted almost until we reached town again. My worry didn't completely go away, but by the time I dropped my horse off at the livery, a lot of the knots my stomach had been tied up in had started to worked themselves out. Unfortunately, it didn't take long after returning for my anxieties to come back in full force. I tried not to let them get in the way, however, and did my best to have a normal day. After all, I'd done all I could for Bart for the moment, and pacing around in my room wouldn't help anything or anybody. That's what's what I told myself as I tried to eat lunch anyway and I actually managed to get most of it down, but it ended up settling in my stomach like a rock. I then attempted a small poker game, and that turned out be a disaster. Afraid I was going to tarnish the name of Maverick with my bad playing I excused myself from the game rather quickly and ended right back up in my hotel room pacing. Maybe it wouldn't help, but for now I was pretty much worthless for anything else.

Back in my room I still tried to occupy myself for a while. I played some Maverick Solitaire and had about as much luck as I'd had with the poker, and I even attempted to read some but the book was laid aside after only a few pages. I've never been a big reader and my mind certainly wasn't on it now. Unable to think of anything else to do I was contemplating trying to force down an early supper when I heard the pounding on my door start. My first thought was the sheriff but he didn't seem like the kind to bang on a door like that. I then thought of Hutch; I was sure he'd knock like that.

I opened the door expecting to hear something about Bart. What I didn't expect was to come face to face with Dandy Jim Buckley. I was too stunned to say anything and for a moment it seemed he was too. He looked . . . well, if it had been anyone else I would say harried, but that wasn't a word I would have ever thought would apply to Jim Buckley.

We stood there for a minute, staring at each other and Jim finally seemed to come back to himself. "Maverick," he said with a nod before he pushed his way into my room.

"Where's Bart?" I demanded as soon as I'd recovered from the shock of seeing Buckley.

Buckley's eyes were darting around the room like he was looking for something. I also noticed he didn't look nearly as dandified as he normally did. His tie was loose, his vest unbuttoned, and his coat was splattered with something I guessed was mud. I'd never seen Dandy look quite like he looked now. "I need you to come with me. Where's your hat? We should leave at once."

I grabbed Buckley's arm and spun his around to face me. "Where's Bart?" It probably wasn't what Bart would count as nice, but I wasn't in the mood to deal with Buckley now, particularly with Bart nowhere in sight.

"He's in trouble."

The last thing I'd known, they'd both been missing. If Buckley was here, why wasn't Bart? My eyes narrowed; I was suddenly suspicious of Buckley's presence. "What have you done this time?"

Jim pushed my hand away and took a step back. The frantic look disappeared and that arrogant tilt of the chin came back. For once, I was actually glad to see it. It made me feel like I was dealing with Buckley again, and as unpleasant as that can be, he is someone I know how to deal with. "I?" Jim asked incredulously. "For once I can say I did nothing."

"Where's Bart?" I asked again, not wanting to take the time to ask what that statement was supposed to mean.

Buckley sighed. "We were kidnapped."

"I know that."

"Well, they still have him."

"Why?"

"There's no time for long explanations. Just come with me."

"Where? To Bart?"

Buckley nodded. "It's twenty miles away, could be less. I don't know exactly; I was kept blindfolded until we made the main road."

I was still suspicious of Buckley being here while Bart wasn't. I couldn't help but wonder what scheme of Dandy's had gone wrong, and how Bart was mixed up in it. Again I asked the question he hadn't answered before. "Why are you here if he's not? They just get tired of dealing with you?"

Buckley ran a hand through hos already mused hair and chuckled weakly. "I'm here to fetch you. I'm afraid you're the cause of all this, my friend."

I sent Buckley a glare, my best Beauregard Maverick look. I'm almost a mirror image of my father and Bart says my look is a pretty good imitation of Pappy's infamous glare, so long as the recipient didn't grow up under the real Beauregard Maverick that is. In other words, my look has little to no effect on Bart, but it does the job pretty well with others, including Buckley. "Me? Buckley, I swear you'd better start makin' sense or I'm gonna . . . ."

Again Jim's arrogance seemed to lessen as he heaved a sigh. "I told him you wouldn't come." The words were muttered more to himself than to me.

"You told who?"

"Bret, you have come with me. For Bart's sake. Please."

"Where?" I was confused and starting to lose patience with Buckley. Almost nothing he'd said so far made any sense, and I couldn't recall him ever saying please to me before.

"He wants you. If you don't come along. . . ."

"Shut up," I demanded glad when Buckley snapped his mouth shut. I sighed and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. I could feel a headache starting; a side effect I noticed that seemed to come from overexposure to Dandy Jim. Dropping my hands I sighed. "Jim, I'm not goin' anywhere with you until you explain what is going on and where my brother is."

"They still have him. He's being kept as a hostage."

"Who?"

"There's a man. He has a couple of other working for him and a young woman."

"What do they want with Bart?"

Jim sat down heavily. "Nothing. They're not interested in him. Bart was merely bait to catch you, and I . . . ." He gave me a half smile. "I just got in the way."

"Who are they?" I asked again.

"Some fellow named Boucher or something like that. Major Boucher. Apparently he has something against you from when you were in the army."

"Boucher?" I thought back. I don't know a Boucher. I didn't recall ever having a commanding officer in either army called Boucher, and I sure couldn't remember ever having done anything that would cause one of them to have a personal grudge against me. Frankly, I'd hated the army, both of them, but I was always pretty good about following orders. That was mostly due to the fact that my sense of self-preservation is far too strong to buck someone with a high rank. Whatever the reason, my years of service were overall painless. I couldn't imagine what this major, whoever he was, had against me.

"He mentioned '65 and Arizona; a scouting mission or something like that and you being a . . . ." Jim trailed off. "You do what he's talking about."

It was a statement, not a question, and for good reason. My stomach had rolled when I'd heard "scouting mission," and I knew my expression had changed. I probably looked as ill as my stomach felt. I nodded. "I . . . I know the scouting party. But I didn't have anything to do with that, and there was no Boucher attached to that party. I never had a commanding officer by that name either. Whoever this man is, I don't know him."

"Well, he knows you, dear boy, and he is very anxious to see you again."

"So they sent you to get me?"

"Yes. Bart was to remain behind and I was warned if I tried any escape Bart would be killed. However, if we could start back, I'm sure Bart would appreciate it."

I was still leery of what Buckley was telling me. "How are we supposed to get there if you don't know where it is?"

"We'll be met."

I still wasn't sure what exactly was going on but Bart was in trouble and really that was all I needed to know. I started to pick up my gun belt then paused, giving Jim another look. "You're not lyin' to me, are you?" Sure he sounded sincere, but Buckley's good at that. That's what makes him a good conman.

Jim suddenly looked insulted. Not the usual aloof, indignity, but truly insulted. "Bart's been shot. Do you think I would lie about that?"

"What?" I grabbed Buckley's lapel. "What do you mean shot? Why didn't you tell me that when you first came in? Didn't you think that was important?"

"There's no call to manhandle me," Buckley said shoving my hand away. "You asked me to explain the situation and that's what I was doing."

I sighed realizing he was right, however, if I'd known about Bart being shot before I wouldn't have spent so much time trying to figure things out. I was pretty sure most people would have told me that little piece of information as soon as possible, but then again, Dandy isn't most people. In his mind the approach probably made perfect sense. I took a deep breath and tried to calm back down. "Bad?"

"Bad enough, but he was awake and talking when I left him."

I noticed the spots on Jim's jacket again. I'd taken them for mud before but I suddenly realized with sickening clarity they were blood stains. My brother's blood. "Where?"

Jim put a hand to his lower right side. "Here, but Bart doesn't think Boucher wants him dead, and I'm inclined to agree. He'd of no use to them dead."

"Well, if Boucher thought shooting my brother would guarantee I would follow you, he was right." I grabbed my hat and gun belt. "Let's go."

"Bret." I stopped in the middle of fastening the belt and looked at Jim. "He may not want to kill Bart, but I do believe that's precisely what he means to do to you."

I finished tying my gun down and put on my hat. "I know. Let's go."


	9. Chapter 9

**Bart's Story**

Some things never get any easier; no matter how many times one has to go through them. Getting shot is one of those things. I don't care how many times I have to suffer through having hot lead invade my body; it's never going to get better. Charity had made me as comfortable as she could, but without proper care there was only so much that could be done, and it wasn't much. I had been moved off the floor and into the bedroom, though, and it was nice to be in an actual bed. Apparently Boucher didn't think I was capable of doing too much with a hole in my side because he'd allowed my hands to stay untied. Those two things did ease a little of my misery but the wound still felt like it was on fire, although that was an improvement over the agony that had been caused by Charity trying to clean it.

Groaning I curled up on my side trying to find some position that would ease, even marginally, the burning in my belly.

"There's nothing else I can do for you. I'm sorry."

I forced open eyes I hadn't realized I closed and looked up at Charity. What was I supposed to say to her, that it was fine? It wasn't. That I would be alright? I wasn't sure I would be. I was hurting, and there wasn't any relief in sight. I had passed out a couple of times, but it never lasted long. Even earlier when Jim left, I'd only been able to enjoy the darkness a few minutes before I'd been jarred awake. Just in time to enjoy getting moved into the bedroom and undergo Charity's ministrations. I was in and out for most of that too.

"Why are you . . . doing this?" I finally asked when I could think of nothing else.

"He told you. He needs your brother to come."

I stared at Charity; she didn't look the slightest bit phased by what she'd just said, as though it was completely normal to go around shooting people to guarantee you could get a powwow with their brother. I warily closed my eyes again. Charity was an even bigger puzzle now than she had been before. She had taken care of me so she obviously wasn't so heartless that she wanted to see me dead. But she hadn't seemed too upset when Boucher had shot me either. Maybe she just didn't want me dead before my time. I had thought before they didn't want me dead, but now I wasn't sure if it mattered or not. A bolt of pain shot through my gut again bringing another moan.

I heard Charity scoot her chair closer to the bed as I rode out the wave of pain. "Bart." I felt her hand on my arm. "He had to make sure your brother would come. I am sorry he had to go this far."

That didn't make much sense to my pain filled mind, but I wasn't sure it would make sense even with a clear head. When the pain settled back into an almost bearable throb I opened my eyes. "Why do you . . . want my brother?" I forced out between gritted teeth.

Charity looked down then back at me. "He has to pay for . . . men died, Bart. He needs to answer for that."

There it was again. For some reason Boucher believed Bret was responsible for someone's death, and he had convinced Charity it was true too. Just what was it Bret had supposedly done?

Bret and I had been pretty fortunate while we were in the army. Most of the time we'd been in, we'd been allowed to be together. We'd spent a lot of time in New Mexico, but during the fall of '65 Bret had been in a group that was sent into Arizona. Listening to Boucher, one would think Bret had committed some heinous crime, but when Bret had returned to New Mexico just a few months later he hadn't mentioned anything out of the ordinary happening.

"What did he do?"

"It's not what he did. It's what he didn't do."

Could she have been more cryptic with her answer? I was about to ask her to explain when another spasm of pain went through me. Groaning I once again tried to shift into a more comfortable position. I already knew it wouldn't do any good, but that didn't stop me from trying. Unfortunately, all it did was aggravate my wound even more.

"Don't try to move around," Charity said softly. She took a cool rag and wiped the beads of sweat off my face. "You're only hurting yourself more."

"What do . . . you care?"

"I care." Charity sounded offended. I peered up at her, sure I'd never come across a more confusing female. I could almost believe she did care, except that she was partially responsible for my being here to start with. "I do," she insisted. "I didn't want him to shoot you."

"Still in there?" I asked after I'd caught my breath again.

"The bullet? Yes."

I would have sighed but I knew it would hurt too much. I should have figured. On the one hand having a bullet inside me meant there was no exit wound. That was to my advantage as there was only one hole to bleed and possibly get infected. The flip side was there was a bullet in me. It wasn't wise to leave lead in the body too long, but given a choice between leaving it or letting one of my captors take it out, I was content to leave it a while.

My thoughts went back to Bret. I had mixed feelings about him coming. I had a feeling that Boucher wanted my brother dead. I was afraid that Bret would be gunned down where he stood as soon as he showed his face here, but I knew I wasn't getting out of this alone, and that bullet could only sit inside me for so long before the real problems started. At the moment, this looked like a lose, lose situation. Feeling hopeless, I closed my eyes. Charity continued to wipe my face and after several minutes I started to feel better. I still didn't know how this would go, but I had more confidence Bret would think of something. The pain in my side dulled some too, allowing me to talk again.

I opened my eyes and found Charity leaning over me. She smiled some and I tried to return the gesture. "Charity, what does he have to answer for?"

Charity bit her lip and seemed to think a lot about her words before she spoke. "Dereliction of duty."

"What?" The idea was absurd and my natural reaction was to defend my brother. I attempted to sit up ready to do just that. It turned out to be a big mistake on my apart. As soon as I moved fire tore across my middle, forcing a strangled yell from my throat.

"Bart, don't!"

I held onto Charity, trying to ride out the wave of intense pain. I could hear her muttering something but couldn't make out the words. Eventually the burning began to die down, and I could almost think again, even though I was still gasping for breath. I relaxed the death grip I'd had on Charity's arms. A somewhat pathetic sounding moan left me. I felt Charity pull out of my grasp and put her hands on my shoulders. Every bit of energy I'd had before had been drained out of me with my sudden movement and she had no trouble pushing me back onto the bed.

"What are you doing? You have to be still," she scolded as I lay there panting.

I've never had my guts torn out before, but I imagine it would feel something like what I had just experienced. "Sorry," I said hoarsely. Eventually, the pain did subside and I was able to think about Bret again. I turned back to Charity. "That's ridic . . . ridiculous. Bret wouldn't . . . do that."

"He did," she responded coolly.

"How?" Again it looked like Charity wasn't sure what or if she should say anything. "That's a . . .serious . . .charge in the . . . army." Serious enough that I knew Bret would never have done anything to risk having to face it. I also found it hard to believe something that major would have happened and I wouldn't have been told a word about it.

"It wasn't an official charge, but it should have been." I just did my best to glare at her. I wanted to know what was going on. "He was to be in a scouting party. He didn't go. He was replaced and they were ambushed by a group of renegade Apaches. Most of the party was killed, including the man who was sent to take your brother's place."

I closed my eyes and sighed, grimacing when it pulled at my wound. It was starting to make sense now. If I had to guess I would say whoever had been killed in that party was someone of significance to Boucher, and I was starting to suspect Charity too. "Who was he?"

"My cousin."

I groaned again; this one had nothing to do with my wound. "Boucher's son?"

"Yes."

Alright, I can understand the man being upset, any normal father would be upset, but how could he think Bret had anything to do with that? "How is that's Bret's fault?"

"Thomas wasn't supposed to be there; your brother was."

"Do you know . . . anything . . . about the army? Bret was a . . . a private. He didn't just . . . decide he wasn't . . . gonna . . . go." I had to stop and try to catch my breath again. Putting a hand on my wound, I curled back up on my side. I was talking too much and getting too worked up, but I had to get to the bottom of this. "There was a . . . reason."

Charity gave me a long look before she abruptly stood. "That doesn't help Thomas though, does it?" Turning on her heel she strode out of the room, shutting the door behind her. I rolled over onto my back with a moan.

I heard voices out in the main room but no discernible words. Boucher's gruff voice was louder than anyone else's but still muffled by the door. I assumed Charity was giving her dear uncle a report on what we had talked about. I didn't have to wonder long. Soon Boucher himself came in the room. He came over to the bed and stood over me. He could have sat down, but I suspected he knew standing over me that way was unnerving. I assumed he had learned a thing or two about intimidating men during his army career. "Charity tells me you don't believe my story."

"I don't believe Bret killed your son." I had been determined not to gasp for breath when I answered him and I hadn't. I paid for it though, and was panting by the end.

"Not personally, but he is responsible."

I didn't have a reply. I was almost sure Boucher was crazy now. How could he blame a private for a scouting party being attacked by Apaches? And I knew for a fact that it couldn't have been as simple as Bret telling someone he didn't want to go and being allowed to stay. If it worked that way Bret would never have been in Arizona to begin with. If it worked that way neither one of us would have been in New Mexico for that matter.

"I understand it's not an easy thing for a man to hear, Mr. Maverick . . . . "

"My brother didn't get anyone killed."

Well, I found out the good major didn't take too kindly to being interrupted when I felt him backhand me. It was dispassionate, but hard, snapping my head to the side and causing my wound to be pulled again. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my jaw. I didn't intend for Boucher to hear me make a sound. I also made a mental note to remember just how fast the man was capable of moving.

"You'll do well to remember how to address your betters, private."

The only reply he received was a stare. I hated to break it to the major, but I wasn't in the army anymore. I wasn't a private and his rank meant nothing to me. He may have been in control for now, but it had nothing to do with rank. If he was expecting a 'yes, sir' he was out of luck.

Boucher's eyes darkened. "I have no intention of causing you any more harm, Maverick, but I've never been one to tolerate insolence. Your wound shouldn't be a fatal one; watch yourself and as soon as I have your brother, you'll be free to go, but it would behoove you to keep your mouth shut. However, I'm not a patient man. You'd better hope your brother doesn't waste time." Like Charity, he spun around and left me alone.

 _Hurry, Jim_ I silently pleaded with Dandy as I lay there in the dimly lit room, my side burning and my face still stinging from the backhand. One of those unexpected spasms of pain hit me again and I didn't bother to hold the groan in this time. I hated the thought of Bret walking into this, and I certainly didn't want to be the cause of my brother's untimely death, but I was helpless on my own. I needed help and I had two of the best conmen in the world coming to give just that. I could only hope that between the crafty and conniving minds of Bret Maverick and Dandy Jim Buckley, we would all somehow get out of this alive.


	10. Chapter 10

**Bret's Story:**

The only thing I had to say to Buckley after we left my room was to ask what direction I needed to go in. He tried to ask a couple of questions and I think he might have again mentioned Boucher's intention to kill me once or twice, but I didn't pay attention to him. My only concern right at that moment was getting to Bart. If Buckley had anything else to say it would have to wait until we were back on the trail. Of course, no one will ever be able to say Buckley was easily deterred. I was about halfway between the hotel and the livery when he grabbed my arm. "Bret."

Fighting back irritation I finally stopped and faced him. "What?"

"He means to kill you."

"At least I have the advantage of knowing."

Buckley stared at me like I'd just lost my mind. "Don't you think you should . . . formulate some sort of plan? Or something?"

I pulled out of his grip and started walking again. "I got twelve miles to do that."

I could hear Jim behind me but honestly at that point didn't care if he stayed with me or not. I already knew I needed to head out to the stagecoach; as far as I was concerned Jim had done his part. If he stayed or came it didn't matter to me, although I didn't for a minute believe he would actually fall behind. He did keep quiet after that, though, for which I was grateful. I didn't have time for talk. The only thing I wanted right now was to get my horse saddled and get to Bart as fast as I could.

As I said, I didn't have time for talk, and I hoped that whoever was working the livery wasn't the kind to stir up a lot of idle chatter. Usually, I enjoy a good conversation about nothing in particular, but not today. Thankfully, the man must have sensed the urgency of the situation because as soon as I told him I needed my horse yet again, he had the boy who worked for him get started on saddling him up. A fresh horse was also arranged for Jim, and less than fifteen minutes later we were on our way.

I kept my gelding at a walk until we cleared the last of the buildings in town and as soon as we did that I kicked him up into a ground-eating lope. I knew we could make good time at that pace and there was a part of me that hated we couldn't cover the whole twelve miles at that speed, but that was just the worried older brother in me. The other part knew neither mine nor Jim's mount was up to traveling like that, so after a couple of miles I slowed back down.

Once we were down to a walk, Jim moved up beside me. I looked over and was surprised to see something like concern on his face. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen Buckley concerned for anyone besides himself before. The man was certainly a puzzle.

"Tell me about Bart," I said as we walked. The time I'd spent running had cleared my head some and I realized Jim was right. I did need to stop and think about this some. I couldn't see that it would do any of us any good for me to go barging in without at least some idea of what I was going to do. Besides, the more information I had, the better.

"What about him?"

"How was he when you left?"

Buckley sighed. "He'd been shot. I suppose he was doing as well as could be expected under those circumstances. He told me to come get you."

I grimaced. It didn't matter what Jim was saying, if Bart had asked for me, it was bad. Especially if Bart had the same inkling Buckley did, that Boucher intended to kill me. "Tell me the rest; everything that happened involving this Boucher."

Jim briefly told me about running into Bart in Kansas City and inviting himself to come along to Denver and meeting Charity Moss on the stage. I couldn't help but roll my eyes when Miss Moss came up. Of course Bart was taken with the young woman, it's Bart. Not that I have a lot of room to talk when it comes to being attentive to a beautiful woman, but I'm not as bad as Bart. I guess it did come as a shock when it turned out the girl was mixed up in his kidnapping.

"Around noon today, this Boucher fellow comes in and tells us Bart was merely bait to get to you," Jim continued.

"Was '65 the only thing he mentioned?"

Buckley hesitated. "No."

"Well?" I prompted after a long pause.

"He mentioned you being . . . well, he called you a rebel turncoat."

I flinched at the name. Maybe I wasn't as over all that as I thought I was. "Anything else?"

"He said you and the other rebels received preferred treatment and that you were responsible for a massacre."

I snorted. "The army didn't give anyone preferred treatment."

Buckley sighed. "What did happen, Maverick? If you have any fault at all it's that you're too honest for your own good at times. I know Boucher can't be telling things exactly as they happened."

No, things hadn't happened the way Boucher said. At least they hadn't happened the way Buckley had related them, and for once I had no reason not to believe him. If Boucher was using terms like "rebel turncoat" and desperate enough to kidnap, I didn't doubt he was skewing reality some. "It didn't."

"What did happen?"

"Were you ever in the army?"

Buckley chuckled. "No. That was one of the reasons I left my home; to avoid that particular experience."

"Yeah, that is what you've said." I sighed heavily, the expression rebel turncoat still running through my mind. I wasn't prepared for how hearing that had affected me. I really wasn't supposed to care anymore. I'd made a choice, the only one that had made sense; the only one that still made sense. But if something happened to Bart because of that decision . . . . I shook my head slightly to clear it of the negative thoughts that were threatening to take over. Now wasn't the time to contemplate my life or to try and figure out why this was suddenly bothering me so much. Instead, I let my mind drift back to '65 and the scouting party that seemed to have everyone in an uproar.

 _XXXXXXX_

October 1865 Arizona Territory

" _Good thing the Yankees have us around to do their dirty work, huh?" The statement came from Private Collin Danvers and was accompanied by an eye roll._

 _I shrugged. "We knew what we were gettin'_ _into_ _when we agreed to come out here."_

 _Danvers and I had just been informed by Sergeant Murphy we would be joining a scouting party that was pulling out at daybreak the next day. There had been reports of some renegade Apaches in the area and naturally, the army was expected to handle a problem like that._

" _I guess you're right, but If I'd known then what I know now . . . ." Collin trailed off shaking his head. "Six months, Bret. Six months and we could've been out for good. Now we're stuck out here in this godforsaken desert huntin' down angry Apaches."_

 _Collin had been a fellow prisoner in Douglas and had taken the same deal me and Bart had. He was a Louisiana boy and his feelings concerning the Confederacy were a little stronger than mine or Bart's had been. None of us had known when we agreed to serve time in the Union Army that Lee was going to surrender the Army of Northern Virginia within six months, and Collin had always been vocal about his displeasure at being stuck here since then. Maybe Collin thought he could have survived a Chicago winter, but I was still convinced I'd done the only thing I could when I joined up._ _Not that I was looking forward to huntin' down angry Apaches, but as far as I was concerned, being stuck in the desert for a while was worth having gotten out of Douglas before it killed me. The biggest complaint I'd had since joining the United Sates army was with being sent to Arizona while Bart stayed in New Mexico. Bart and I had never been separated like this before and frankly, I missed my brother. Oh, I got along well with Collin and we'd become friends over the last few weeks, but it wasn't the same as having Bart around._

 _"We really are the lucky ones, ain't we?" Collin asked a smile coming to his face._

 _Collin had often joked about us being the lucky ones since we'd become acquainted. We'd been lucky enough to end up in Douglas, lucky enough to get conscripted into service when the war was so close to being over, lucky enough to be part of the randomly selected men pulled out of our company and sent to Arizona, and now lucky enough to be part of the scouting party being sent after those Apaches. Frankly, I felt like I'd had more than enough luck lately and would be more than happy to pass my luck along to someone else. The only thing I was interested in now was getting_ _through_ _what time I had left in the Army and_ _getting_ _back to Little_ _Bend, Texas_ _. Getting rid of the headache that seemed to be growing with each passing hour would be nice too._

" _At least it's Lieutenant Allen," I offered. "There are worse men we could be_ _stuck_ _goin' out with." Lieutenant Allen was one man who didn't seem to automatically distrust us because we were Galvanized Yankees. Although, with the men that had been pulled out of New Mexico a good number of men currently at the fort were Galvanized Yankees. Maybe he just decided it was easier to trust us than not._

" _How right you are, my friend. If we can only get that lucky with the rest of the group . . . "_

" _We don't need any more luck," I broke in._

 _Collin laughed_ _. "Not the way ours has been runnin'. Hey, you alright?"_

 _I'd been rubbing a hand across my forehead but stopped at the question. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little headache."_

" _You need to go to the infirmary?"_

" _No, I'll be alright. I'll probably feel better after I get something to eat." It was almost time for us to be in the mess hall anyway._

 _Collin looked at me but finally nodded. "Alright. As I was saying, if we can get lucky_ _enough . . ."_

 _I shoved Collin's shoulder good-naturedly._ " _Stop_ _talkin' about luck. Right now, if it weren't for bad luck I don't think we'd have any luck at all."_

" _Ah, you're probably right. You sure you're feelin' alright?"_

 _I realized I'd been rubbing my temple and once again dropped my hand. "I'm fine." The headache had gotten more persistent over the last hour or so, but it was nothing too bad. I was still hoping that supper and a few hours sleep was all I would need._

" _At least we don't have guard duty tonight," Collin offered with a smile._

 _I gave him a look. "They wouldn't make us pull out at dawn if . . . ." I stopped. "They wouldn't do that, would they?"_

 _Collin sighed. "Bret, I gave up trying to figure out the army, particularly the Yankee army, years ago."_

 _I laughed. "I know what you mean. Come on, let's see what delicacies the_ _U.S. Army_ _has for us this evening."_

 _It turned out I was wrong about supper improving my headache. As a matter of fact, eating seemed to make me feel worse. Not only did the ache become a throb, but my stomach started acting up on me too. Soon it was a challenge just to get a bite down, and I was quickly becoming afraid keeping it down was going to turn out to be a bigger challenge. Thankfully, there was_ _nowhere_ _I had to be after supper and was free to find my bunk as soon I'd forced down as much food as I could. Collin asked about the infirmary once more before I made my escape but I brushed off his concerns and told him to go enjoy his free time._

 _It took about an hour after I lay down to realize nothing was going to get better. The_ _throbbing_ _was turning into_ _pounding, and_ _my stomach was churning worse than ever. As much as I hated any thought of going to the infirmary I was soon too miserable to do anything else. I forced myself off my bunk and staggered to the infirmary._

 _Captain Parish M.D. was talking to one of his orderlies when I entered the infirmary. He looked up at me. "What can I do for you, private?"_

 _I opened my mouth to reply and immediately felt bile start to rise in my throat. I swallowed hard. "Excuse me, sir," I mumbled before I stumbled back outside and lost everything I'd eaten earlier._

 _Sometime during my retching, I felt a hand on my back. "Private?"_

 _I straightened and faced the doctor again. "Sorry, sir."_

 _The doctor_ _smiled, his_ _hand still on my shoulder. "Nothing to apologize for. Let's get you inside and you can_ _tell me what's_ _troubling you; besides the obvious."_

 _It didn't take much of an exam to figure out I was sick. By the end of it I had thrown up_ _again,_ _and I was starting to feel the fever the doctor said I had. I was told I was staying in the infirmary at least for the night, and when I weakly protested that I had orders for the morning I was calmly informed that I would be going nowhere in the morning_ _and doctor's_ _orders trumped all others. Having never been one to question orders I took whatever it was I was given and settled in for the night._

 _As the doctor predicted, I was in no shape to go anywhere come dawn. Sometime during the_ _night things_ _got much_ _worse, and_ _by the time the sun came up I didn't think I could haul myself out of bed if I had to. I vaguely remember someone being at my bedside speaking words it took too much effort to figure out and trying to pour more concoctions down my throat. All I knew for certain was that I felt worse than I'd ever felt before, and I welcomed sleep when it came._

 _My next conscious thought was there were a lot of people in the infirmary, much more than there had been the night before. Warily I forced my eyes open and was surprised to find every bunk occupied. I was trying to find a reason for the infirmary being full when I heard someone calling my name. I looked over and saw Collin sitting beside my bed._

" _You finally decided to wake up, huh?"_

" _What?" I asked drowsily. Something about Collin didn't look quite right, but I couldn't put my finger on it._

 _Collin smiled. "Doctor said you had it bad, worse than anyone else. You've been out of it for 'bout four days now."_

" _What?"_

" _Some kind of grippe. You were the first but you weren't the last. Couple of dozen of us got hit with it in all."_

 _I was more awake now and the words started to make sense. I finally realized what was wrong with Collin too. He was wearing nothing but his trousers and undershirt, and his boots were off. He was also pale and his eyes looked_ _tired_ _. Collin had been sick too. I smiled weakly. "Still the lucky ones, huh?"_

 _Collin's face clouded. "I think we might be luckier than either one of us realized."_

" _What?" That seemed to be about the only thing I could say right now._

 _Collin glanced down for a moment then looked back at me. "Well, I came down with it just a few hours after you did. I didn't go out in that party either."_

" _So?"_

" _Those renegades we were supposed to track down. Well, they didn't find them." Collin grimaced. "The Apaches found them, though."_

 _Even_ _through the haze that was still clouding my thinking, Collin didn't need to say anything else for me to understand what he was telling me. "How bad?"_

 _Collin sort of shrugged. "_ _Four made_ _it back. Povey died from his wounds yesterday."_

" _Lieutenant Allen?" I knew what the answer would be but I asked it anyway._ _Collin silently_ _shook his head._

 _I stared at Collin, only one thought running through my head; I was supposed to have been out there. If I hadn't gotten sick, I would have been out there. Maybe I really was one of the lucky ones._

XXXXXXX

"Lost in a memory, Maverick?"

I was jerked back to the present by Buckley's words. I looked over at him and saw he was eyeing me curiously. The smug expression I'd been happy to see earlier had once again become just irritating. Yes, I had been lost in a memory, but not necessarily one I was going to tell him about.

"We have a few miles yet to travel," Buckley continued. "Would you mind telling me what this man has against you?"

"I don't know." That was the truth. Even recounting all that I remembered about that party I still had no idea why this man would go to such extremes to get to me.

"Come now, Bret. You did say you knew about the scouting party he mentioned."

I nodded. "I do know. I don't know why he would want me dead because of it. I told you, I didn't have anything to do with it."

"He seems to think you did," Jim mumbled almost under his breath.

I shot him an irritated look but he was right. Whoever this Boucher was, he did seem to think I was involved. It didn't matter what the man thought, however, I still didn't know who he was. I sighed irritably. "I was supposed to go out with that party. The night before we were to leave I got sick, really sick, with the grippe. I obviously couldn't go and spent more than a week in the infirmity. The party still went out and was attacked by a group of renegades. Only four men came back and one of them died from his wounds a couple of days later. That's it. Unfortunate, but that 's it."

"There must be more to it than that."

"There's not."

Buckley looked like he was about to say something else but thought better of it when I sent him another glare. I kicked my mount back into a lope ready to cover some more ground.

The rest of the trip was made in relative silence until the stagecoach was once again in sight. I was starting to hate the way that thing looked, sitting out by the road and wondered when the stage company would come get it. I had very little time to think of that though before Buckley spoke up.

"Up ahead, Bret."

I peered ahead and saw a man sitting beside the coach at the edge of the woods. "Our escort?" I asked.

Buckley nodded. "The one called Jack."

I gave Buckley a forced smile even though my gut was once more tied up in knots. "Well, let's not keep the man waiting."


	11. Chapter 11

**Bart's Story:**

I don't know how much time passed. I kept drifting in and out. I would have brief moments of awareness where I would see someone moving around and hear a voice but nothing much made any sense and they never lasted long. I was never sure if I was passing out or just sleeping. Eventually, I did come back to myself and the first thing I noticed was the fading light. I also felt kind of hot, stuffy, and in general, uncomfortable.

For several minutes I lay quietly and tried to wrap my head around everything that was happening. I could hear noise in the other room, but it wasn't anything distinct, just a body moving around every now and then; sometimes a muted voice speaking. As far as I could tell, Jim hadn't returned. I realized I didn't have any idea of when he would, either. Just how far were we from Denver, and how long would it take a man to ride there and back again? Thoughts of Jim led me to thoughts of Bret. While there was nothing funny about my current situation, I couldn't help but smile as I wondered how their meeting had gone. Hopefully, it had been civil and uneventful.

Despite what Jim may have thought earlier today about Bret not listening to him, I knew better. I know my brother well enough to know that he would have eventually followed Jim out here regardless. Even if he didn't believe anything Jim said about me and Boucher and this whole mess, curiosity would have gotten the best of him sooner or later and he would have had to find out what was going on. It would have taken time, though. Whether Boucher knew it or not, he had done something when he'd shot me. He'd insured Bret wouldn't waste time trying to figure out Jim's angle. Now I can't say for sure that me taking a bullet was going to make Jim any more believable to Bret, but I'm confident Bret's not going to think on something too hard when there's a chance I'm in trouble. There wouldn't be too much dickering between the two of them today. Bret would probably threaten Jim the whole way, but he would get here as soon as he could. That one fact was really starting to worry me.

I was still hurting, a lot, and I felt kind of achy all over, but my head was clear. In fact, it was clearer than it had been in a while. Clear enough that the reality of what Bret was likely walking into was really starting to sink in. I didn't for a moment believe what Boucher said about Bret; there had to be more to the story than what he was telling me. The problem was Boucher obviously believed it, and so did Charity. I didn't doubt the major had retribution of some kind on his mind; retribution that would doubtless end in my brother's death. The more I thought about it, however, the more certain I became that it wouldn't be as simple as just shooting him. I had a sinking feeling Bret was in big, big trouble, and now, thanks to me, he was headed straight towards it. Intellectually, of course, I knew I wasn't really responsible. Bryce and Jack and Charity had done the kidnapping, and Boucher had been the one to shoot me, but still, I couldn't completely shake off the feeling that if not for me Bret would be safe.

I had a sudden impulse to find out if I would be of any use to Bret if he needed me, although honestly, I didn't feel very confident about it. Steeling myself for what I knew was going to be an unpleasant experience, I shut my eyes and pulled myself upright. The fire in my gut was renewed and utilizing all the self-control I processed I managed not to yell out, although I couldn't stop a groan from passing through my clenched teeth. I had to catch my breath before I went any further, but I was finally able to get my legs off the bed. It turned out that was all I had in me. The simple actions that I would have accomplished without a thought when I was healthy left me weak and shaky, and all I could do was sit on the edge of the bed, hands fisted in the blanket while I told myself to breathe.

I quickly came to the conclusion that I couldn't stay where I was and I would either have to get up or go back down. I was trying to decide which would hurt more when Charity entered the room. "What are you doing?" she demanded, rushing over to me.

I opened my eyes and peered up at her as a chill ran through my body. "I have to . . . ." Well, I wasn't sure what it was I needed to do. I wanted to get up but I knew that was next to impossible right now.

"You're not capable of doing anything at the moment." She gave me a reproachful look before she helped me ease back onto the bed.

I groaned again and squeezed my eyes shut as I once more had to ride out the pain pulsing through my gut. Once the fire had died down I looked back to her and found her watching me with sympathy. Man, she confused me. Did she care or not?

She smiled at me tightly before she reached out and brushed my hair back. Her hand lingered on my forehead and I heard her tut softly. "You've got a fever starting," she said before wiping my face with a cool wet rag.

I grunted in agreement. I hadn't needed Charity to tell me that; I'd already suspected it. Nothing but a fever could make me so hot and uncomfortable and still send chills through me too. The only surprise was that it had taken this long to start. "Need a . . . a doctor." She didn't need me to tell her that, but I was trying to sound sick, maybe even kind of pitiful. I was hoping to appeal to her better nature as it were. I knew she had to have one. I didn't understand everything she had done, but she'd treated me too well to be as deranged and heartless as everyone else in this cabin.

Charity smiled sadly and wiped my face off again. "As soon as this is over I'll get you to one."

I guess that was as good as her nature got. What did she mean as soon as this was over? As soon as what was over? As soon as Bret was here? As soon as Bret was dead? I thought back to what Boucher had said. There was simply no way Bret could have been responsible for what happened, and no one with any sense at all could believe that he was. I looked up at Charity. "You can't . . . believe in all this. In what he's . . . what he's doin'. You can't believe . . . this is right."

"I didn't know he'd do this to you. He just said he wanted you here. He never mentioned shooting you."

I could accept that. I could even almost believe her. But then if he could so easily shoot me, someone even he admitted was innocent, what was in store for the person he thought owed him something? Had Charity thought about that as she'd played a part in luring Bret here? Another chill ran through me, but I wasn't sure if it was from the fever or my thoughts of Boucher. "Has he . . . said anything abo . . . about Bret?" If I could just get some more information; the more I knew ahead of time the better off we'd all be.

Charity bit her lip. "No," she answered after a hesitation.

I didn't believe that. "Charity." I tried to give her a Beauregard look. Unlike Bret, who is almost as good at it as Pappy, I don't have a talent for the look. But there are times I do all right.

"He just said he needs him here." Charity sounded almost desperate, but she still hadn't told me anything. She was either being deliberately evasive, or she really was that naïve. What did she think Boucher was going to do to Bret? Give him a slap on the wrist and tell him he'd been a bad boy before sending him off without supper? There was no way the girl who'd told Bryce what to do could be that innocent.

I took as deep a breath as I could. I was hurting, I was frustrated, and frankly, I was scared. For Bret that is. "He's gonna . . . kill him, Charity. Your uncle's gonna . . . gonna kill my brother."

Charity shook her head. "He hasn't said anything about killing. He just . . . ." Charity snapped her mouth shut and looked away.

"What?" I tried to push myself up on my elbow but quickly abandoned that pursuit. "What's . . . he said?"

Charity sighed. "I don't suppose it would hurt to tell you. You'll find out soon anyway. He's here to see justice done. Your brother should have been court-martialed. Uncle Frank will see that it's done. He'll be charged and judged for his crimes."

The only thing I could do was stare at Charity. Was it possible for her to be so ignorant of the way things worked? Bret was no longer a soldier, and I had my doubts the major was still serving as well. Did she honestly think Boucher had the authority to do anything to Bret? Even if she did believe that, what about me and Jim? I'm no expert but I'm pretty sure it's never legal to kidnap someone or to shoot them just because. And the stage driver? Well, that definitely wasn't legal. Again she was throwing me into a state of confusion.

I couldn't think of a thing to say in reply to the things Charity had just told me so I simply stared at the ceiling, wondering how we were going to get out of this. Maybe Charity knew exactly what was going on and had finally realized how serious it all was. Maybe she was trying to find a way to rationalize it in her mind. Regardless of what she said, I was still convinced Boucher intended to kill Bret, and that's what I had to prepare for.

I was trying to think of some kind of plan when one of those sharp, unexpected pains hit again. I groaned and tried to curl in on myself, wishing that there was some way to take the edge off the pain.

Charity went into that protective mode again and started crooning softly to me. It didn't help much, but I found I preferred hearing her voice to being alone. And gripping her hand gave me something else to think on. "It's all right, Bart," she said softly as the pain started to ease some. "It'll all be over soon." That's exactly what I was afraid of but instead of answering, I found myself just nodding. "Do you need anything?"

"Noth . . . nothin' you can . . . get me," I told her trying to smile.

Something I couldn't identify crossed Charity's face. "Try to go back to sleep," she said. She kept hold of one hand but started running her fingers through my hair with her other, and my eyes drifted shut whether I wanted them to or not.

It could have hours later or maybe only seconds, but there was now a commotion coming from the other room causing my eyes to pop open.

"Put the gun down. The old man won't like you shootin' him." Was that Jack?

"Perhaps we should do as the gentleman says." That was definitely Jim. Did that mean . . . .

"I told you to sit down." That growl could only come from Bryce.

"And I told you to show me my brother." My heart jumped. Bret was here and he wasn't happy. The voices got louder, closer, Bret's coming through the clearest. "Is he in there?"

"You just don't worry about that."

"I do worry about that."

"I told you, you can't shoot him."

The door opened and all four men poured into the room. My eyes found my brother first. I smiled weakly. "Brother Bret. Decide to . . . join the . . . fun?"

Relief washed over Bret's face and he tried to return the smile. "You really can't stay out of trouble can you?" Bret asked squatting down beside the bed and taking my free hand in his.

"What I've been. . . told."

"All right you've seen him. Now come here." Bryce jerked Bret back and, surprisingly, Bret didn't say anything. He didn't resist as Bryce roughly cuffed his hands together either.

"When did he say he would be back?" Charity asked as she stood up.

"He just said tonight," Bryce answered as he handcuffed Jim too.

"I guess I should get something started for supper then." She walked from the room without sparing any of us another look.

"We keepin' 'em in here?" Jack asked.

Bryce nodded. "Nothin's changed," he said looking at each one of us. "If one of you tries anything the other two will pay for it." He gave us a parting leer before he and Jack left, locking the door behind them.

"Charming group of people, aren't they?" Jim said giving Bret a smile.

"The only kind Bart ever finds," Bret replied before sitting down beside me. "The girl is pretty, but I think you can do better, little brother." I grunted in complete agreement with him. Bret suddenly became serious. "How you feelin'?"

"Like I been . . . shot." I'd meant it as a joke but I could see Bret wasn't in the mood for humor. The lines on his forehead deepened as he picked up the rag and wiped my face, muttering an apology for the awkwardness caused by the cuffs.

When he'd finished with the rag he tossed it back in the basin and sighed. "So Boucher's not here," he said looking to Jim.

Jim approached the bed. "Apparently not; I suppose he wants us to wait a little longer."

Another sigh came from Bret as he ran his hand through his hair. Again the cuffs made the action cumbersome.

"Who is he?" I asked ready to get to the bottom of this mess.

"I don't know," Bret mumbled.

"What?" I was sure I hadn't heard right.

"I don't know," Bret repeated louder.

"But . . . ." I looked at Jim. "How . . . ." Back to Bret. "What?"

Bret smiled wistfully and propped his elbows up on his knees. "That's right, Brother Bart. I've never heard of Major Boucher. At least not until Buckley told me about him a few hours ago."

For some reason, that didn't make me feel any better. Actually, it made the knot in my stomach grow. How do you fight a man when you don't know who he is, or what he has against you?


	12. Chapter 12

**Bret's Story:**

Bart looked so bewildered at the news I almost wished I didn't have to tell him. Well, I wished we weren't in this situation to start with, but I wished I could give him some reason for our being here.

"What?" he asked again like he couldn't quite comprehend what I was saying.

"I don't know who he is or what he wants."

Bart wearily shut his eyes. "This doesn't . . . make any sense."

I really felt guilty now. Bart sounded confused and agitated. He didn't need the stress of either one of those and I felt like I had only added to that since walking into the room. "Don't worry about it, Bart," I told him hoping to calm him some. "I'm gonna get you outta here."

Bart opened his eyes again. "I knew . . . knew there had to . . . be more . . . but how can . . . you not know?"

Now it was my turn to be confused. It sounded like Bart knew something I didn't, but how was that possible? I shot Buckley a look, my first thought being he had neglected to tell me something else, but he looked just as lost as the rest of us. "What do you mean, Bart?"

Bart sighed and winced. "There was . . . a scouting party . . . ."

"I know," I said cutting him off. It was a struggle for him to talk and there was no need for Bart to tell me what I already knew. "But I already told Jim I don't know what that has to do with anything. I wasn't part of that."

"That's . . . the problem."

I'd been expecting answers once I got here, but so far all I'd gotten was more questions. I leaned in closer to my brother. "I know it's hard to talk, so don't say anything that's not necessary, but what do you mean?"

"Boucher's son."

"What about him."

"He . . . was there. Took your place."

I sat back again and thought about that. That could almost make sense except . . . "Bart, there wasn't a Boucher in that party. I would remember that name."

"Maybe we're all crazy," Bart mumbled before he tried to change positions. The action brought a moan. The sound tore at my heart and fueled my anger. Who was this man that he had the right to cause so many people so much misery?

"That's enough, little brother. Try to get some sleep. I'll keep an eye out for a while." I wasn't sure what I was watching for, or what I could do about anything that happened, but I figured Bart would rest easier knowing I had his back. And he certainly looked like he could use some rest.

Bart shut his eyes and mumbled something about being hot before he fell quiet. After a few minutes his breathing evened out and I know he was finally asleep. I put a hand to his forehead and grimaced at the heat coming off of it. It wasn't a bad fever yet, but I knew it wasn't doing him much good. I was curious about how bad his wound was, but I wasn't about to disturb him by poking around on him while he was asleep. That would have to come later. I sighed heavily, hoping there would be a later.

"Is he asleep?"

I looked behind me. It was the first thing Jim had said since we'd been left alone and I'd almost forgotten he was around. "For now." The reply was tense but I couldn't help it. I was still irritated with him, and I was worried about my brother.

"Perhaps he'll remain that way for a while. It would be helpful for us. Easier on him too."

I turned around in my chair and gave Buckley a long look. I don't understand the man. Something about his presence had been bothering me ever since we'd left Denver, and looking at him now, I finally figured out what it was. He had no business being here. Here at the cabin that is. Boucher was after me and Bart had gotten caught in the crossfire because of it, but Buckley really had no part in any of this. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. "Why did you come get me?"

"I had very little say in the matter." Ha gave me a wan smile. "I'm rather fond of my knees."

I wasn't sure what he meant by that but didn't waste time thinking on it, instead, I returned to the matter at hand. "You were alone when you found me; we weren't met until we got to the woods." I nodded toward Bart. "You knew I would come for him. You could have kept ridin'. They're after me; I doubt they would have tracked you down."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think they would have hesitated to make good on their threats of harming Bart had I not returned."

"And that would have bothered you?"

Jim gave me that look again, the one like I was insulting him. "I know your opinion of me isn't terribly high Maverick, but, yes, it would have indeed bothered me for a friend to be harmed for no good reason."

I raised an eyebrow, almost feeling guilty for what I'd said.

He inclined his own chin towards Bart. "He would have returned for me."

I sighed. I'll probably never know what makes Buckley think of a man as a friend, but for the first time, I didn't doubt what he was saying. He does care about Bart, and he was worried about him too. "Jim?"

Buckley looked over and raised an eyebrow. Obviously, my use of his first name wasn't lost on him. "Bret."

"Would you be willing to do something for me?"

"What did you have in mind?"

I almost smiled. It was a more positive answer than I'd been expecting, but I noticed he hadn't agreed right off. Bart's friend or not, he's still Dandy Jim. "If I don't get out of here, I want you to make sure Bart's taken care of. Get him to a doctor and get him back on his feet."

"It's a reasonable request."

"Will you do it?"

Jim started studying his fingernails and didn't answer right away. When he met my eyes again I noticed he looked resigned. "Bret, if Boucher really does intend to kill you, do you believe he'll allow me and Bart to simply ride away?"

I sighed. Jim had just said the thing I'd been trying not to think about. I didn't like him pointing it out, but I was afraid he was right. One man may have already died because of Boucher and his friends. If he wanted me dead would he really hesitate to kill Jim and Bart too? Especially since they were both witnesses to everything that had happened the last two days. I shot him a look and he gazed back impassively.

"Will you do it?" I asked irritably.

Another long pause before "Yes."

I nodded, feeling a small sense of relief. I still wasn't expecting Boucher to let them walk away without some kind of fight or at least some negotiations, but I felt better knowing I had Buckley's word on that. It was odd I was taking Buckley's word for anything, but I did believe him about this.

"If it should come down to choosing between helping you and getting Bart out . . . ."

I sent Buckley another glare that blessedly shut him up. All good things must end I suppose. Just when I thought he might be showing a trace of something human, he had to say something like that and show me Dandy Jim was alive and well. "Take care of Bart," I said. "Even if it means leavin' me."

"He won't like that."

"I know, but I don't much care if he does. Just take care of him."

Jim nodded. "Very well."

"He's right."

The muttered words took my attention away from Buckley and back to my brother. His eyes were bright with fever but the disapproval in them was clear. "Didn't know you were awake, Brother Bart," I said with a smile trying to deflect away from the conversation I'd just had with Buckley; a conversation I know he heard even if I hadn't meant for him to.

"I don't . . . like it," Bart said clearly not going to let himself be distracted. "I'm not leavin' you."

I sighed. "No one is leavin' yet."

"We're . . . all goin'."

"Alright, Bart. Like I said, no one is leavin' yet." Bart gave me the best glare he could for a few more seconds before nodding. I hated to break it to my brother, but he was getting sicker by the minute and when it was all said and done he probably wouldn't have much say in what he did. Getting him worked up wouldn't help anything, though, so I tried to pacify him.

"Mean it."

"I know."

Bart started shifting around again. Every movement was accompanied by some kind of moan or wince. "Why don't you try to sleep some more?" I asked when I'd seen about as much of his pain as I could stand to.

"Can't. Hurt too much . . . to sleep."

"You feel like talkin' some?" I didn't want to force him to talk, but if he wasn't going to be able to rest maybe talking would help take his mind off his pain.

"What you . . . wanna know?"

I inched my chair closer. "Boucher. You said something about his son but there wasn't a Boucher in that party, I know it."

"What he said."

I looked back to Buckley. "What didn't you tell me?" I knew he could probably hear the irritation in my voice, but he hadn't told me about Bart getting shot. It was easy to believe he'd left something else out too.

Buckley gave me a disgruntled look. "Nothing," he said getting to his feet. He came over to the bed and gingerly sat down by Bart's feet. "You know what I know."

"Play nice, boys," Bart said, a smile almost appearing on his face. He turned his attention to me. "He told me after . . . Jim left."

"What else did he say?"

"Said you should have . . . been there. He died because . . . you weren't. Said you needed to . . . pay for . . . dereliction of duty."

"Dereliction of duty? I thought you said you were ill?"

I looked back to Jim. "I was. I couldn't have gotten out of bed that morning if I'd had to."

I quickly gave Bart and Jim an abbreviated version of the night I'd gotten sick and what had happened afterward. By the time I finished Bart was peering up at me in an accusing way. "You never . . . said anything 'bout . . . being sick."

I shrugged. "There was nothin' to tell. I got over it a few days later; it wasn't nothin' serious."

"Apparently Boucher thinks it was serious," Jim said.

Bart just looked bewildered again. "But if that's true . . . ." he trailed off. For a minute he stared at the ceiling looking like there was something else he wanted to say or was trying to think of. Before he said anything else, though, he groaned and curled back up on his side. I could tell he was hurting and badly by the way his jaw was clenched and his free hand was fisted in the blanket. It broke my heart knowing there was nothing I could do to help him, and the only thing I was capable of was watching him hurt.

"What's goin' on, Bret?" he mumbled when the pain died down enough to talk.

"I wish I knew, Brother Bart. I wish I knew."

"It seems the good Major is the only one who can answer that," Jim said. "Or any of our questions for that matter."

I nodded vaguely; afraid Buckley had stated the truth. I was just as lost now as I'd been before. Nothing had come out of this but more questions and a feeling of absolute helplessness. I was still at a loss as to who Boucher's mysterious son was and why he had targeted me. I'd been racking my brain ever since Bart told me what Boucher had against me, and I still couldn't remember anyone by that name. I certainly couldn't figure out how I was supposed to be responsible for his death.

"Maverick?" I looked at Jim. He started to say something then hesitated and cut his eyes over to Bart. He looked back to me before he spoke again. "Has it occurred to you we may be dealing with a madman?"

I glanced over at Bart too. Despite his earlier claims that he couldn't sleep because he was hurting too much, he seemed to have drifted off again. I sighed and leaned back in my chair. Again, I was afraid Buckley had just spoken God's honest truth. "Yes, it has."


	13. Chapter 13

**Bart's Story:**

I wasn't asleep, not really. What I'd told Bret before was true; I hurt too much to sleep. I wasn't exactly pretending to sleep either. I was exhausted and frankly, lying in bed was about all I had the energy for. That being said, I wasn't making any effort to show either Bret or Dandy that I could still hear most everything they were saying. I knew Bret would clam up if he suspected I could hear his plan. I didn't like what I was hearing, any of it, but if I was going to be able to do anything about it, I needed to know what was going on in his mind.

I knew Bret was thinking of me; of my life and what he could do to keep me safe because that's what Bret does. He's the big brother and he looks out for me. He always has, and he's never gotten over the idea that that's what he's supposed to do. Don't get me wrong, I couldn't ask for a better brother, and most of the time I don't mind him still feeling the need to point out that he is older. The thing Bret doesn't seem to get though, is we're not kids anymore, and I learned a long time ago that sometimes big brothers need to be looked after too. That's exactly what I planned to do. No matter what it took out of me, I was going to do everything I could to see Bret made it out of this too. I just needed some rest first.

I'm not sure how much time passed after Bret extracted Jim's promise to help me, but I stayed in my half-asleep state until I heard someone come into the room. Opening my eyes, I found Charity. She was holding a tray and gave me a smile when she saw I was awake.

"I brought you some supper," she said setting the tray down and taking two bowls off of it.

"The last meal perhaps?" Jim asked as she handed one to him. The question seemed to make her uncomfortable and her only reply was a glare.

"Thank you," Bret said as he accepted his own bowl. "Any sign of our esteemed host?" The question was accompanied with one of those smiles that usually had girls doing whatever he wanted them to.

"He'll be here soon enough," she said mildly, not seeming the least bit impressed by Bret's dimples. "I shouldn't think you would be in a hurry." She then came to me, her expression softening considerably as she knelt beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

I tried to give her a smile. "I'm okay."

She pushed my hair back. "It'll be over soon, Bart. I promise. Then I can get you to a doctor and everything will be fine."

Except my brother will be dead, I thought. I was still baffled by her, and again I couldn't help but wonder if she really believed everything she kept telling me. I didn't have the desire or energy for another discussion with her, though, so I just nodded.

Charity smiled sweetly and squeezed my hand. "Just relax a little longer. It won't be long." She looked over her shoulder to where she had left the tray. "I brought you some stew. Do you want me to help you eat something?"

"If he needs any help he'll get it from me," Bret cut in sharply.

Charity and I both looked his way. I was amused by the protectiveness I saw in his eyes, Charity wasn't. I squeezed her hand this time. "It's okay," I said, seeing no good reason to make her mad.

Judging by her face, it was plain Bret wasn't her favorite person but she smiled at me again before returning the squeeze and getting to her feet.

Bret watched her leave then turned to me. "You just can't help yourself, can you?" He sounded disgruntled.

Had I been feeling better I would have rolled my eyes. "It's not what you . . . you think."

He eased down on the edge of the bed. "I hope not. She's part of all this, you know."

"Don't worry . . . Brother Bret. I know."

He finally smiled. "So you're feelin' okay, are you?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Feelin' . . . better." I really did feel better, not good by a long shot, but better. The pain wasn't as bad, and as long as I didn't talk too much I didn't feel as breathless.

"Is that why you can still barely string more than two words at a time together?"

I choose not to answer that. "Help me up. I do . . . wanna eat."

That wasn't entirely true. I didn't want to eat, but I figured it would help me, and I was determined to start acting as normally as I could. Bret gave me another look and I had the feeling he knew exactly what was going on, but he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me upright.

Even as gentle as he tried to be I couldn't stop the grunt that came from the pain flaring up and again my breath was momentarily taken away, but I just gripped Bret's arm until the pain died down and I thought I could talk again. "Thanks."

"I know what you're doin'." The tone was accusing and I didn't bother to deny it.

"Know what . . . you're doin' too."

"I'm tryin' to keep you alive."

"Me too."

"You don't deserve to be here."

"You . . . either."

"Bart . . . ." Bret trailed off with a sigh. I guess he didn't have any way to debunk that.

"I'm not . . . leavin' here . . . without you."

"Has it occurred to anyone that we all may be overreacting some?" Bret and I both turned toward Jim. "Perhaps the situation really isn't as dire as we believe."

"Funny, that's not what you said earlier," Bret commented dryly.

Jim shrugged. "I could have been mistaken."

I didn't know if this was Jim's attempt at keeping the peace or just wishful thinking. Either way, I knew he didn't believe what he was saying. I shook my head. "You weren't." I took a minute to catch my breath. "He is a . . . madman. We all go . . . or none of us . . . go. No other . . . option." My eyes traveled between the two of them. "You both know . . . that." I could tell by their expressions I was right.

It was almost a full minute before Bret spoke again. "I'm goin' to do whatever I can to keep you alive. You got that?"

I nodded. "Fair e – enough. And I'm . . . .gonna do the same."

Bret tried to give me his look. Maybe in a few more years he'll be as good as Pappy but he's not there yet, and he gave up when I just stared back at him. He finally smiled. "Alright. Just . . . don't do anything stupid. Please."

"That go for . . . you too?"

There was a long pause before relented. "Yeah."

"Good." I sighed. "Bret?"

"Yeah?"

"I really . . . do wanna eat."

XXXXXXX

I wasn't able to eat much, but it did help me feel a little better, even if it drained my energy again. Afterward, we all sat in silence. There wasn't much left to say, and I don't think anyone was in the mood for chitchat. It didn't make much difference to me as I sort of started drifting in and out again. Every once in a while I would hear Jim and Bret talking and it occurred to me that I'd never heard them be as civil towards one another as they were being today. I guess being held prisoner by a lunatic will change your perspective some; make you understand what really makes an enemy.

It was during one of my half-asleep moments that the door was suddenly pushed open, banging against the wall and bringing me back to full awareness. I'd been sort of leaning against Bret but struggled upright as Bryce walked in. He paused just inside the doorway and slowly looked the three of us over, taking particular interest in Bret. A leer that I assumed was supposed to be a smile finally crossed his face and he stepped aside revealing Major Boucher.

The Major strolled into the room with just as much arrogance and authority as he had earlier in the day. This time, however, Jim and I seemed to be of little consequence to him and his gaze locked on Bret. "Good of you to finally join us, Private. It took far more trouble than it should have to get you here, but why dwell on the inconvenience? You're here now."

I looked over at my brother, watching him for any sign that he recognized the man in front of him. The only thing I'd been able to come up with so far that explained any of this was that Bret had forgotten a name over the years and something would come to memory when he finally saw Boucher. But the way Bret was staring at the man impassively now told me I was wrong about that. Bret truly didn't know who this man was.

"Nothing to say, Private?" Boucher huffed when Bret said nothing. Obviously, he wasn't pleased with the lack of response he was getting

"Only that I'm not a private anymore," Bret replied with a smirk.

"Are all you rebels this insolent, or is it only the ones named Maverick? Never mind," he added before Bret could answer. "Your tongue will be curbed soon enough." He snapped his fingers and I was surprised to see Jack hurry into the room with a chair. He set it down next to the major and then stepped out of the way. I wasn't sure what to make of that. Neither he nor Bryce struck me as the kind to be ordered around like a servant. I'd assumed before that the two men were nothing more than hired muscle, but now I had my doubts. Did they have some kind of connection to Boucher, maybe this whole mess, or did the major just pay that well? If it was only money, how much had Boucher given to get Bret here? The thought that my brother's life had a price on it made a knot grow in my stomach. Just how much did Boucher think he was worth? More importantly, why?

Boucher sat down never taking his eyes off Bret. He pulled his gloves off one finger at a time and then crossed his legs. Again, the arrogance coming from the man was almost tangible, but Bret was unimpressed by the show the man was putting on. It was exactly what anyone who knew Bret would expect, but I knew Boucher wouldn't appreciate it. I had a feeling the man liked a captive audience, and Bret wasn't cooperating.

Once Boucher finished preening, he leaned back in his seat. "You know why you are here, of course, Private."

"It's just Maverick," Bret said. "Bret Maverick, and, no. I'm afraid I don't. I was hoping you would enlighten me."

Boucher's eyes narrowed. "You are here," he said with a sneer. "To answer to the charges that are about to be laid against you; charges that you should have answered for years ago."

"I didn't have anything to do with that," Bret snapped.

"I disagree. On your feet, private."

"I'm not a private."

Boucher's eyes flashed. "Your insolence is beginning to wear on me. I had hoped you would be more reasonable, but you obviously require an incentive to cooperate." The major looked over to Bryce and nodded slightly.

I barely had time to register their shared look before I felt a heavy hand grab my collar and jerk me off the bed. Renewed pain tore through my middle, heightened to the point it almost felt like I'd been shot again. A yell was ripped from my throat as my knees buckled. I tried to curl in on myself to offer my abused middle some protection, but Bryce's vice like grip prevented me from doing that. He was the only thing keeping me upright too, as my legs didn't seem to have the strength to hold me up anymore. Eyes squeezed shut; I tried to remember how to breathe, all the while mentally cussing Bryce and Boucher.

I heard Bret yell in protest before Boucher's voice cut in. "I wouldn't do that, Maverick. For now, Bryce has been told to keep your brother alive, but there is plenty of pain he can inflict without doing any more serious damage."

The only sound after that was heavy breathing and it took me a minute to realize it was coming from me. Eventually, I was able to open my eyes and focus on Bret. I saw that Bryce yanking me up had done one thing; Bret was now on his feet. I could tell he wanted to run to my aid, but something was stopping him. It was then I realized there was a gun pressed against my head.

"Control yourself, Maverick," Boucher said, that sick smile plastered across his face. "We have many things to discuss, and I assure you, your brother is going nowhere."

Bret took his gaze off me and drilled Boucher with a look I wasn't used to seeing on Bret. It was a look that had me thinking Bret probably wouldn't have too much trouble killing Boucher if he could.


	14. Chapter 14

**Bret's Story:**

"Hey," I yelled, jumping to my feet the second I heard Bart cry out. I was ready and willing to run through the SOB that had grabbed hold of him. Unfortunately for me, the jerk was also armed. Before I could get to Bart, the man pulled his gun and shoved it against Bart's head. That stopped me pretty quick. There was no doubt in my mind he would pull the trigger.

"I wouldn't do that, Maverick."

I shot Boucher a glare as he started telling me about how Bart was supposed to be kept alive but how much damage could be inflicted without killing him. Bart's ragged breathing caught my attention again and I looked back his way. He was bowed over as much as the big man's grip would allow, and I didn't need to see his jaw clenched or his eyes squeezed shut to know how badly he was hurting. After a long moment, too long a moment, Bart forced his head up. Seeing the pain and confusion in his eyes cut through me like a knife. I made the decision then and there to behave. I wasn't going to push Boucher and find out just what he meant about causing Bart more pain. He was hurting bad enough already, and I wasn't going to be responsible for causing any more damage to him.

"Control, yourself, Maverick," Boucher sneered. "We have many things to discuss."

I finally forced myself to look away from my brother and at the lunatic holding us prisoner. His eyes were shining sadistically, and I realized with a jolt he was enjoying this. He wasn't just glad he finally had his hands on me, he was enjoying the control and knowing he held our lives in his hands. He was even enjoying the pain Bart was in. At that moment it became clear to me there would be no reasoning with this man. He really was crazy and if any of us wanted to get out of here, he would probably have to die. Frankly, I wouldn't mind being the one to remove him from the picture.

Don't get me wrong, I don't like killing. I know I killed men in the war, and I'm sure a few Indians met their end because of me, and I've been forced to shoot back at a few people who were shooting at me since I've gotten out of the army, but there is nothing about it I enjoy. Even now, I wouldn't go so far as to say I would enjoy killing Boucher, normally I might even feel a little guilty about how desperately I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck, but a quick look at Bart was all I needed to alleviate that guilt. I wanted this man to pay for what he'd done, and one way or another I planned to see that happen.

Boucher's demeanor suddenly changed. "Attention, Private," he barked in a voice that I had no doubt had probably made many a private's life miserable.

Private; I hated that title. I'd left it behind a long time ago, and I'd been glad to do it. Hearing it now brought back memories I'd just as soon not think on. I especially hated the authority I would be giving to Boucher if I answered to it. "I'm not a priva . . . . " I was cut off by a noise from Bart; an odd combination of a grunt and a whimper. I cringed at the sound, knowing how badly he had to be hurting to voice his pain like that, and around so many people. I heard a yelp of surprise come from my left side too. I jerked around to see Boucher's other lackey pointing a gun at the base of Buckley's skull.

I sighed. I'll freely admit, I was far more concerned about Bart than Buckley, but I didn't like seeing Jim in that position any more than I did Bart. As much as I don't like to be around Buckley, and as much as I wish Bart wasn't as close to him as he is, I don't want to see him dead. In jail maybe, but not dead. Especially for something that didn't have anything to do with him. I made a decision then; as much as I didn't want to give Boucher the satisfaction of seeing me on my knees – figuratively if not literally – I snapped to attention.

"Very good, Private."

I knew now behaving wasn't going to be enough. If I wanted any chance of getting Bart, even me and Jim, out of this, I was going to have to play Boucher's game. I swallowed hard, pushing what remained of my pride out of the way. "Sir?"

I swear the man visibly puffed up. "Yes, Private."

"My brother has nothing to do with this. I'd like to request his release." I didn't think it would do any good, but it was worth a shot.

Boucher's sadistic smile returned and he actually chuckled. "I can't do that. His presence ensures your cooperation."

I glanced at Bart briefly. His head was down, breathing ragged, and it was obvious Bryce was the only thing keeping him on his feet. That was actually quite a fete; Bart's slim but he's no lightweight. Under different circumstances, I might have been impressed that the man could hold him up with one arm. As it was, seeing him hold Bart like that was just a reminder of how helpless I was right now. "Could he lay down at least?"

Boucher seemed to consider that and finally nodded at Bryce. The man lowered his gun and dragged Bart over to the bed again. He wasn't exactly gentle; once he got Bart close to the mattress, he sort of just gave him a shove. Bart fell to the bed, a strangled yell escaping. I winced at the sound and wished there was something I could do to help, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. At least Bart was out of the man's hands, for now anyway.

"Satisfied, Maverick?" he asked smugly.

I immediately noticed the major didn't call me private. I wondered if it was intentional or an oversight, but I wasn't about to mention it. "Yes, sir," I said instead. "Thank you."

Boucher grunted noncommittally before heaving a sigh. "It's time we got down to business now."

I had a feeling the major's business was going to be unpleasant for me, and I wasn't in a hurry to find out exactly what it was, but it would be hard to stall him. Leastways not without causing Bart additional harm. Taking a deep breath, I looked Boucher right in the eye. I would stand at attention if I had to, I'd call him sir if I had to, but I wasn't going to cower before him.

Boucher didn't like my resolve; I saw the change that came to his eyes, but he kept his expression the same. He gave me a slow once over and stood. "Who are you, private?" He walked around me studying me like I've never been studied before. "Who are you that you should live when my son died?" I didn't have an answer and before I could think of one Boucher whirled around. "Private, you are charged with dereliction of duty, failure to obey orders, and disrespect towards a superior."

According to Boucher, I was an absolute fiend. If even part of what he said was true I would never have made it through five years of army life. Then there was the small matter of Boucher having no authority to charge me with anything. If the situation wasn't so serious, it would almost be amusing to see the man gravely laying military charges against me. As it was, it was deadly serious, and all I could do was gape at the man.

He turned back around. "What do you have to say for yourself, private?"

I squared my shoulders. "Not guilty," I stated plainly. I wasn't sure what part of having the grippe and being unable to get out of bed constituted failure to obey orders or dereliction of duty, or how anyone in their right mind could think it did. As for disrespect towards a superior, well, I assume Boucher meant him. The only problem with that was, I was a civilian now and Boucher wasn't my superior.

Boucher's eyes narrowed as he advanced on me. "Your arrogance astounds me, young man. Do you honestly believe you have a chance of proving your innocence?"

"I do," I snapped. "Because I didn't do anything."

"You," Boucher snarled jabbing me in the chest with his finger. "Caused the death of my son."

"I don't even know your son." Even I could hear the note of desperation creeping into my voice. What was I doing here? What were Bart and Jim doing here? The longer this went on, the less sense any of it made. My brother had been kidnapped and shot just to get me here so I could answer to some ridiculous, trumped-up charges. Boucher really was crazy; it was the only explanation.

"Private Thomas Cassidy."

"Cassidy."

"You remember him."

It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded anyway. I did remember Cassidy. He'd been young, even younger than me, about nineteen or so. He was easy to remember; he'd been one of the fresh-faced ones. Too young to have been in the war, he was new to the army and didn't have the jaded attitude so many of the older men had, particularly us galvanized Yankees. He'd been the kind that was eager to please and always ready to try something new; full of life and enthusiasm. I remembered at times that enthusiasm could wear on a man's nerves, especially after living through three years of war and the living hell the prison camp had been. But at the same time, that eagerness had almost been enviable. He'd made me feel sort of old and worn out, and I longed to have that Joie de vivre again.

"Do you still wish to deny your guilt?"

I stared at the man in front of me. Honestly, it had been a blow to learn Cassidy had been one of the men that had fallen that day. I remember thinking it was a shame a boy his age had lost his life when there was still so much living left to do, but after more than four years in the army, I'd seen a lot of boys meet the same fate. It was still a shame, but I had nothing to feel guilty about.

"I didn't do . . . . "

An auditable crack filled the air as Boucher's palm connected with my face. "A fort full of useless rebels, and they sent him. You were traitors to the union and traitors to your cause. They didn't have to send Thomas, he had so much potential, he could have done great things in the army, but you . . . you made it necessary for him to go."

Boucher's slap had hurt, a lot. My cheek was throbbing and I felt the tell-tale trickle of blood on my lip. I thought about Private Cassidy as I wiped the blood from my mouth and I suddenly realized something wasn't right. I looked to Boucher again. "Wait. Cassidy?"

Boucher inhaled sharply, and his eyes hardened as he stared me down. "Yes, private, Cassidy. Unfortunately." The major clasped his hands behind his back and started to pace. "My wife was a fickle, weak woman. She wasn't fit to be the wife of an officer. She didn't like order; discipline. We quarreled about such things often and more than once she threatened to abandon her vows and return to her family. One day she did just that and, undoubtedly, it would have been for the best except she took my son, my unborn son, with her. After Thomas was born she refused to let him carry my name and even managed to secure a divorce. I tried to get him so he could be raised properly, but my wife and her family's not inconsiderable fortune kept that from happening."

Well, that explained why I couldn't remember ever having heard Boucher before, it was because the name was Cassidy. It also explained why Cassidy had always been so laid back and easy going; he hadn't grown up with the major. As for Mrs. Boucher, well, I don't know why any woman would want to marry Boucher to start with, but at least she had the sense to leave him; probably the smartest thing she ever did.

"My son could have, should have had a great career in the army; he should have entered with a commission, and would have if he'd been raised with me like he was meant to have been. As it was he entered as an enlisted man, a mere private forced to take up the jobs the turncoats like you refused to do." A knot formed in my stomach as the major stopped pacing and turned his attention back to me. "He was fine until word was received you wouldn't be carrying out your orders to join the scouting party. He was ordered to take your place. He died because of you."

So that was it. All this, all this hurt and misery because I'd gotten sick. "It was the grippe. I wasn't allowed out of the infirmary; I couldn't have left if I wanted to. I-I liked your son."

"Enough," Boucher cut in, his voice smooth and cold as ice. "Your time to speak is done. The court has reached its decision." He strode over to me. "Attention, private."

I didn't like this, any of it. Something about Boucher had changed, and I knew that was going to be very bad for me. "I didn't kill your son. I didn't have anything to do with it."

"Attention."

"This is crazy."

I barely saw the subtle shift in Boucher's eyes, but I sure enough heard the cry of pain that came from Bart. I whirled around and saw my brother curled up in a fetal position, undoubtedly to protect his bleeding and abused midsection from the ox of a man that stood between us. Bryce held a rifle, and unless I missed my guess, there was blood dripping off the stock. Bart's blood.

Again my desire to run through the man was almost overwhelming, but the rifle made me behave. Bart couldn't take another hit.

"Attention, private," Boucher said again, his eyes gleaming as that sick smile returned to his face.

I snapped to attention once more, my stomach churning unpleasantly. Something told me as bad as things were, they were about to get a whole lot worse.

"Private Breton Maverick, you've been found guilty on all charges. You sullied your uniform and the name of United States soldier. For your gross misconduct, you're to be flogged, forty strokes of the lash, for the deaths of your comrades, execution by firing squad. The sentence will be carried out at dawn."

Without another word, Boucher turned and left, his two lap dogs following along behind him. For a long moment, I was too stunned to move. The words flog, lash, and execution running through my mind as I tried to make sense out of what had just happened. I'd suspected all along Boucher wanted me dead, but to hear it laid out so plainly was unnerving. And not only did he want me dead, he wanted me to suffer before I died. I saw a man flogged at Douglas once; an illegal practice, but there were a few guards there who couldn't be bothered with things like rules and laws. A shudder went through me as I remembered the incident.

"Bret?"

Buckley's voice pulled me away from that unpleasant memory and I saw him kneeling beside Bart, a bloodied handkerchief in his hand. I rushed over to my brother and finally saw the wound Bart was carrying. It was bleeding again, quite a bit. I guess he had Bryce's last hit to thank for that.

"We're running out of time," Jim said softly.

I pulled out my own handkerchief and pressed it against Bart's side – ignoring his grunt of pain – and prayed we hadn't already run out of time.


	15. Chapter 15

**Bret's Story:**

It was destined to be either the longest night of my life or the shortest; I wasn't sure which yet. What I did know was I was starting to reevaluate my definition of hell. See, two days ago, I'd have told you I'd already been there. Douglas was as close to hell on earth as I could imagine a place being, and I'd been sure when I stumbled out of there I'd never see any place that could match it for misery and torment. This cabin was proving me wrong, however. This was a living, breathing nightmare, unlike anything I'd ever been through before. At least at Douglas, I'd known I was the enemy; I'd expected the abuse I'd received there. This . . . this was something that made no sense; something there was no reason for.

Since Boucher had "sentenced" me and left the room I'd alternated between pacing restlessly and doing what I could for Bart. He wasn't doing well, and I was almost sick with worry. I'd managed to get the bleeding stopped again, but I was afraid it was too little too late. He'd already been carrying that bullet around a lot longer than he should have been, his fever was rising, and he'd lost more blood than he could probably afford to. The extra abuse Boucher's man had inflicted on him during my "trial" hadn't helped him any either. At least he was unconsciousness now. If he was out of it, he wasn't in pain.

I like to think I'm a pretty positive person most of the time, but I was finding it harder and harder to maintain the outlook that things were going to work out, even for Bart. I wasn't sure a doctor would be able to do much for him now even if I, or Jim rather, was able to get him to one. And then there was the matter of Boucher actually letting him go; he didn't strike me as the kind of man who would be too concerned about keeping his word. I didn't like the way that revelation made me feel. I've spent Bart's whole life trying to look out for him, and I've always thought I've done a fair job of it, but I, sure enough, blew it this time.

I know pacing this small room dwelling on how I'd failed my brother probably wasn't the best way to pass the time, but it kept me from thinking about my own fate. I was willing to think on just about anything to keep the thought of that out of my mind.

How does a body even start to prepare themselves to be flogged? At this point, I couldn't even bring myself to really be worried that Boucher planned to kill me. After forty lashes, I'd likely be half-dead anyway; a bullet would probably be a welcome respite. I'd already seen how sadistic Boucher was, and how much he enjoyed other's pain, and how much he didn't mind infecting it. I could only imagine the glee he would feel when he got to see his son's "killer" beaten to a bloody plump.

Despite my best efforts, I couldn't keep myself from remembering the flogging I'd seen at Douglas or visualizing what would happen to me come sunup. After ripping my shirt off, they'd tie me up taking care that my arms were stretched out so the skin on my back would be nice and taut. After all, when you're flogging a man you want to make sure it's as painful as it can possibly be. I wonder what Boucher was planning on using, a whip or crop? Maybe he'd just use a cane. Not that it really mattered, by the time he finished with me my back was going to be a mess; some of the wounds so deep they'd probably never heal right. But what did that matter? I was going to die after that anyway.

A hard knot settled in my stomach and for a moment I was afraid the stew I'd eaten earlier was about to make a return appearance. Boucher was going to flog me, beat the hell out of me, and for what? Because I'd gotten the grippe? The situation was so ridiculous I almost wanted to laugh, almost being the operative word. It was terrifying too, and I had no problem admitting the prospect of having a lunatic like Boucher lay into me with a whip scared me. I felt the bile rise up in my throat again and once more succeeded in forcing it back down. Blowing out a shaky breath I wiped suddenly sweaty palms down my pants legs. I had to think about something else, anything else.

I stopped pacing and went back over to Bart. Thinking about Bart's fate beat thinking about my own. Sighing I eased down on the bed beside him.

"I doubt the condition of the wound has changed since the last time you looked," Buckley said as I pulled back the makeshift bandage.

I grimaced at his observation, but ruefully admitted he was right. The wound was just as angry and inflamed now as it had been earlier. "Gotta pass the time somehow," I grumbled. Jim had been somewhat helpful when I'd been trying to get the bleeding to stop. Since then, however, he'd reverted back to his usual annoying self, and Bart wasn't in any shape to play mediator this time. That made me even more annoyed even if Jim wasn't responsible for it.

"Yes, I see your point. I suppose it's better than thinking of your own misfortune."

I glared at him but didn't reply. Of course, that's exactly what I'd been thinking, but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"I can't say I blame you, old boy," Buckley went on either not noticing or ignoring the look I was giving him. "Forty lashes is a rather chilling prospect."

Chilling. Buckley had a gift for understatement. Chilling didn't even start to cover it. Matter of fact, thinking about it nearly scared me spitless.

"I believe it would be far kinder to simply kill you from the start."

"You ever shut up?" I snapped. A madman had recently told me he planned on beating me half to death right before he killed me. Did Buckley really think I wanted to talk about that?

Buckley stared at me, clearly taken aback. "There's no need to snap, Maverick. I was only making conversation," he said at last, his tone telling me I'd just offended him.

I stared back at him for a minute before I snorted a laugh. Dandy's a cheat and a con man, but he's a good con man, and it was times like this that I remembered why he was good. That tone mixed with that look almost made me feel sorry for him. Again that's almost. Still, if I knew what he was and he could get that reaction from me, what chance did the poor unsuspecting souls who didn't know him have? But, I refused to feel bad for snapping. Anyone in their right mind . . . then again, this was Dandy Jim we were talking about. I'm not sure he is in his right mind. It certainly seems to work differently than everyone else's mind at any rate.

Sighing I ran a hand through my hair and reminded myself this wasn't a normal Buckley scrap. Yeah, he talks too much and has very little discretion, but we weren't stuck here because of someone Jim swindled or because a con went bad. This one was all on me. Okay, that was stretching it some, but for once Jim was innocent. Being innocent didn't make him any less annoying, though.

I decided to focus on Bart again. It beat anything else I could do right now. I checked his fever but refrained from looking at his wound again. Buckley was right about that; looking at it over and over wouldn't change anything. I heaved another sigh and wished Bart would wake up. I knew he was probably better off unconscious, but it would do me a world of good to see his eyes again. And Buckley always seems more tolerable when Bart's around, even if Bart was sick and hurting.

"You're worried about him, aren't you?"

I rolled my eyes at Buckley's question. There were plenty of sarcastic remarks I could make in response to that, but I decided against them. What good would it do? I finally settled for a simple "yeah."

After a long pause, Buckley got up and walked across the room to me. "Maverick?"

"Yeah?"

"What you said before, about my getting Bart out, even if it meant leaving you behind."

"Yeah?" I was preparing myself for another stupid or otherwise irritating comment.

"You really meant that didn't you?"

I hadn't been prepared for that. I turned and looked at Jim. "Of course I meant it."

"You would die if it meant Bart could live."

"Yeah." I wondered what all these questions were leading up to. I thought we'd already been over all this. "What's this about, Jim? Why the sudden . . . ."

I trailed off when I heard someone unlocking the door. My stomach lurched and I suddenly felt sick again. Was it dawn already?

I didn't have long to wonder before Boucher walked in, his two boys trailing behind him. I stood; glad my legs were still willing to hold me up. My stomach was already in knots and I felt a chill go through me when Boucher smiled at me. The last thing I wanted was to be unable to stand and look him in the eye.

"It's nearly dawn, private."

I nodded vaguely before glancing at Bart. As much as it would reassure me for him to open his eyes, I knew it was better this way. As long as he was out of it I didn't have to worry about him doing something stupid while trying to save me. I looked over at Buckley and gave him a take-care-of-him look. He held my look for a moment before nodding once. Satisfied that I'd done what I could for Bart, I turned my attention back to Boucher. "Alright, major."

"Bryce," Boucher said nodding in my direction. The hulk of a man marched over to me and roughly grabbed me with one hand while he kept his gun trained on me with the other. Taking a deep breath, I sent up a desperate prayer for some kind of miracle and got ready to meet whatever doom Boucher had planned out for me.

Bryce had started pushing across the room when I heard Boucher talking to his other boy. "Bring the fancy man too."

I stopped suddenly; I tried to whirl around to face Buckley. "What?" Bryce tightened his grip on me and continued to push me forward.

"Just a moment my good fellow," I heard Dandy say indigently. I didn't have to see him to know he was being pushed out of the room right behind me. I looked to Boucher and saw that wicked grin of his growing. "Boucher, let him go. He has nothin' to do with this."

Boucher held up his hand signaling for Bryce to stop. He strolled over to me looking bored. "I'll remind you, private, that you are in no position to make any demands of me."

I shook my head. "Let him go." I didn't know what kind of chance Bart had, but I knew he wouldn't have any chance at all without Jim. "Your fight's with me. Let him stay here and take care of my brother."

Boucher seemed to think about that, but that smile of his quickly returned. "No."

"He hasn't done anything."

"Call it guilt by association."

Boucher motioned towards the door again and walked out. I felt myself being pushed forward once more, but I was done cooperating. If Boucher was going to go back on his word, I refused to walk off like a lamb to the slaughter. Digging my heels in I fought Bryce with everything I had. "No! Boucher, you have to let him go. He hasn't done anythin'."

I was fighting as best I could with my hands cuffed when suddenly, without any warning, Bryce's fist connected with my gut driving the air out of me. Before I had the chance to catch my breath he hit me again. As I concentrated on drawing a breath I heard Boucher's voice again. "Hurry up, Bryce. I want to get this over with. I've waited long enough for my justice."


	16. Chapter 16

**Bret's Story:**

It took a minute for me to regain my breath and my wits. By the time I did, Bryce had holstered his gun and was holding me in a grip I didn't have a prayer of getting out of. The girl was in the other room and as Bryce drug me outside, I locked eyes with her. Her expression was one I couldn't quite read, something between regret and defiance. I couldn't help but wonder if she thought I deserved to have this done to me too. Just before Bryce shoved me outside, I saw her rush into the other room, to Bart. I didn't know the girl, or what her role in all this was, but I did know she had played a part in kidnapping my brother, and frankly, I didn't want her touching him. But at the moment she was better than nothing; at least Bart would have someone there if need be.

As I stumbled out into the yard of the cabin I saw the other man pushing Jim out, gun still pointed at his head. "What are you gonna do to him?" I asked Boucher.

Boucher looked over at Buckley lazily. "It's no concern of yours."

"What are you gonna do?" There was no longer any need to play his sick game and pretend to give him the respect his rank would have at one time demanded.

"You'll have problems of your own soon enough, private."

"Tell me."

"He'll be killed. Eventually. He's of no use to me."

Jim looked dismayed and I heard a sort of surprised sounding squeak come from him. I know Buckley would swear that nothing as undignified as a squeak would ever come from him, but that's exactly what it was, and I didn't blame him a bit. I wasn't surprised by what Boucher had just said, and I doubted Buckley was either, but I know firsthand that knowing something is going to happen doesn't necessarily make actually hearing about it any easier.

"Don't," I told Boucher. "He doesn't mean anything to you. Let him go take care of my brother." The girl was better than nothing, but I wanted someone I trusted with him, and yes, odd as it sounded at this moment, I did trust Buckley.

Boucher finally gave me his attention and he looked as though he was dealing with the slowest, most boring person on Earth. "I'm afraid that's out of the question, Maverick. I simply can't allow your friend here to be able to talk to anyone when this is over."

Looking into his eyes, I saw something I hadn't seen before. He was still sadistic, but he wasn't as crazy as I first thought. There was insanity there certainly; normal people don't enjoy seeing other people suffer, but Boucher wasn't so delusional as to think he had a right to kill me as I had first thought. Maybe in some twisted way, he did think I was responsible for his son's death, but he knew what he was doing was wrong and letting Jim go was letting a witness go. Bart was a witness too.

The reality of that came crashing down with about the same weight I figured that whip would soon be coming down on me with and I felt my knees buckle. Unless something happened, and soon, we were all going to die. "You don't have to kill him," I said making another appeal to keep Buckley and therefore Bart alive. "I know Buckley. He's a coward; he won't say anything."

"That's right," Buckley added. "I'm afraid I'm quite spineless."

Boucher walked over to Buckley. With a smirk, he took the gun out of Jack's hand and pointed it at the base of Buckley's skull. "You'll forgive me, Mr. Buckley, if I don't take your word for it."

I saw Jim shut his eyes at what he assumed would be his final moments and I felt my heart skip a beat. I'll probably never be able to say Buckley's a friend, not the way Bart does, but he didn't deserve to die like this.

"Don't worry, Mr. Buckley," Boucher said obviously taking note of Jim's reaction. "It's not your time yet." His expression hardened as he looked my way. "Tie him up Bryce; Jack you help him. There's been enough delay."

Jack left Dandy and Boucher and went over to a tree set a little ways away from the house, and Bryce started marching me over to meet him. Thanks to the iron grip the man had on me I couldn't have gotten away even if I'd fought him, but strangely, I didn't feel the panic I'd assumed I would. It was actually sort of surreal as we crossed the yard, and I stayed in that dream like state while Jack removed my cuffs and tied my hands with a rope. I only barely registered Bryce slashing my shirt down the back and yanking the tattered garment off of me. It wasn't until I was shoved against the tree that I woke up from my stupor. The second I felt that rough bark up against my belly all my fear from last night came back. Instinctively, I tried to jerk back, only to have a beefy hand shove me back against it.

"You ever seen a man beat before, Maverick?" Bryce asked as he pulled my arms up over my head. "It can be a pretty gruesome sight." He tightened the rope until I felt it pull on my shoulders. "A very gruesome sight." He was baiting me and I knew it. I had no intention of letting him see the fear that was churning in my gut. "You think you're tough, don't you, Maverick?"

I'm not tough, not at all. I'm a coward, and I don't like pain, and I knew I was just minutes away from a world of hurt. Still, when I finally risked looking at Bryce I didn't let him see anything but my poker face. No, I'm not tough, but I wasn't about to beg for anything, even my life.

Bryce must not have liked my expression because he scowled right before he gave the rope holding my hands one last tug. He'd already had them pulled pretty tight and that last yank brought enough discomfort for me to grunt in protest.

Bryce chuckled. "It happens every time," he said tying off the rope. "They all start out thinkin' they can take it, tellin' themselves they won't make a sound. Well, that first hit's not too bad, but the second one's a little worse, and the next one's a little worse than that." He leaned in close to me. "I ain't seen a man yet that didn't break before the end. You ain't gonna be no different."

I blew out a breath and leaned my head against the tree. There was no doubt in my mind I would break. The question was how long would it take?

Bryce moved away. When I heard someone come up behind me I tensed for a blow, but it didn't come. Instead, I heard Boucher hiss in my ear. "You're young, virile, strong; I'm sure you've turned the head of many a young lady, but I will break you. I was going to do this myself, but Bryce has such a talent for it. Tell me, private, how long do you think it will be? How long before you shame yourself?"

I closed my eyes doing my best to ignore his voice. Like Bryce, he was trying to get a reaction out of me, and I didn't want them to have that satisfaction. But how long could this talk go on? I had assumed they were both in a hurry to see this. Was seeing my growing unease entertaining for them? Maybe they enjoyed the anticipation, too. Personally, I was stuck between praying for a miracle and telling Boucher to hurry up and get on with it.

I blew out another breath, the waiting about to get the best of me. I was starting to feel sick again, and suddenly Boucher called out to Bryce. A brief whistling sound was the only warning I got before I felt the sting of a leather strap running across my back. No warning meant I had no time to prepare myself for the blow and I only barely managed to hold back a grunt. Funny, I hadn't really planned on being the strong, stoic type. It just happened. Boucher counted off one.

I heard that whistle again and then the bite of the leather. I won't say it didn't hurt because it did, but it wasn't excruciating. It was nothing I couldn't handle. Boucher counted off two. The pause between Boucher's voice and the next hit didn't seem as long this time. Still, it was bearable even if it did leave me feeling a little breathless. Three.

There definitely was as much time between this hit and the previous one. I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped the rope binding my hands together. I could do this. Four. The next one caught me in almost the same spot as one of Bryce's earlier hits had. The sting was a little more intense when that happened. Okay, that's a lie. It hurt, and it hurt a lot. Five. I bit my lip as I waited for the next one. When it fell I realized the longer this went on the more common getting hit in the same spot was going to become. That sting was just going to get worse if that was the case. Six.

Bryce had been right, this did get harder. The next blow fell and a grunt slipped out. It came almost too easily, but it was alright. A grunt wasn't a yell; I hadn't given Boucher his satisfaction yet. Seven. By eight a yell was fighting its way up my throat, and by nine I let it. I'd changed my mind. I couldn't do this. My whole back was on fire now, and my legs were less than steady. I couldn't grip the rope holding me in place any tighter if I'd had to, and I could feel the tears starting to burn behind my eyes. Ten.

Ten was special. Ten meant I was a quarter of the way there, but that didn't make me feel any better because I couldn't handle anymore. I'd never hurt quite like this in my life. I tried to pull myself up straighter only to find my arms were trembling, trembling so bad they would no longer support me. I finally gave up and just let myself hang, not caring that my shoulders were holding most of my weight. That awful whistle sounded again and I didn't even bother to try and hold my yell in this time. It just didn't matter. Eleven. God, I couldn't do this anymore.

I waited for the whistle again, knowing I was just about to shame myself as Boucher had called it and not even caring. The blow never came. Instead of that whistling, a gunshot split the air followed quickly by another, then a grunt of pain. It took a minute for me to realize the noise hadn't come from me.

"Everybody just stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them."

The voice caught my attention. It was coming from a distance and not one I recognized. At the moment I didn't care who it was. He'd taken everyone's attention off of me.

Boucher suddenly called out to Bryce and another shot went off behind me, Bryce's gun I assumed. The return fire sounded like a rifle.

"Jack, grab him." That came from Boucher again. I wasn't sure who he was and I didn't have time to wonder before the shooting started up again. Two more shots sounded from behind me and the rifle replied again. This time another grunt followed the rifle.

The shooting stopped and I heard that voice again. "Unless any of the rest of you want to meet the same fate, stay right where you are."

One thing about bullets flying around is they get your attention. The fire in my back was almost forgotten in the face of knowing people were shooting all around me and I was incapable of taking cover or seeing what was going on. My legs suddenly felt a lot steadier, and curiosity got the best of me. I pushed myself upright and turned my head as far as I could. The first thing I saw was Bryce stretched out on the ground. Unless I missed my guess he wouldn't be getting back up. A lot of relief came with that discovery. Boucher had taken cover by the side of the cabin. He was still too close for comfort, but thankfully I was no longer the center of his attention. He wasn't armed that I could see, but I knew I'd feel a lot better once I wasn't trussed up and helpless. I couldn't see Dandy or the other man at all and that had me worried. I hoped Jim hadn't caught one of the other shots.

I heard someone stomping through the undergrowth in the woods, then someone new entered the picture. "Everyone just take it nice and easy. Will, move on down."

That voice I knew. I looked the other way and saw sheriff Jacobs step out of the tree line. Naturally, the other voice would be Farris' then. I briefly wondered where Jacobs had come from and exactly how he'd gotten here, but I didn't dwell on it too long. I was more than happy to see the man.

Jacobs had his eyes glued to the cabin and his rifle at the ready as he moved into the clearing but he addressed me as he advanced on Boucher's position. "Sorry, we didn't make it sooner, Maverick, but these three led us on a merry chase."

"I'm sorry too," I told him, a pronounced rasp in my voice. Now that the gunfire had died down the burning in my back was coming back with a vengeance, still better late than never. Eleven hits sure beat forty.

"You gonna be alright for a couple more minutes? As soon as Will gets down here I'll get you untied."

I nodded. "Yeah." I wanted to say no. The danger had passed and now new pains were making themselves known, including a terrible strain on my shoulders, but I knew there was only so much Jacobs could do on his own. As much as I wanted off this tree, I wasn't about to ask the man to drop his gun away from Boucher so he could see to me.

Farris entered my field of vision then, rifle also at the ready. Like Jacobs, he didn't waste much time on me. "They've got the other one with them back there," I heard him mutter to Jacobs. He could only be talking about Jim I realized. I silently cursed to myself. I'd been hoping Jim had managed to get away from them, but they had probably kept a pretty watchful eye on him. So here we were, me tied to a tree, two lawmen just behind me and two criminals in front of me, and Dandy being held hostage by those same two criminals. Things suddenly didn't look as bright as they had just a couple of minutes ago.

"Alright," Jacobs called. "You two throw your weapons out then step out here slow and easy."

"I'm unarmed, sheriff," Boucher said. "I'm afraid I've never liked the idea of stepping out in front of the enemy when his firepower was so much greater than my own."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

Boucher chuckled. "But I do have a hostage. And this moment there's a gun pointed at his head. Should you or your fine fellow lawman there attempt to come after us, my own cohort will put a bullet in his head."

"You never said nothin' about killin', old man," I heard a rather frantic sounding Jack say.

"Shut up. You're in this too deep to get out now."

"If you ain't killed anybody yet," Jacobs said. "It won't help you none to start now. Send him on out and I'll make sure the judge knows about it."

"Don't you dare, you fool," Boucher hissed.

I wasn't sure Jacobs could hear all of what was being exchanged by the two men and decided to help a little. "I think one of 'em has about had enough, Sheriff."

"Come on," said the sheriff. "Like I told you, the judge will hear about any cooperation."

"Alright," Jack hollered back. "I'm comin'."

"If you want to walk out there than do it," Boucher growled at Jack. "But you leave him with me."

I heard Jack snort a laugh. "What are you gonna do about it? You're unarmed."

I finally saw Jim emerge from around the back of the cabin, but Jack's gun was still firmly placed against his head. Groaning I dropped my head back on the rough bark. I'd thought the man was about to be reasonable.

"That's not exactly sending him out," Jacobs commented dryly.

"No, it's not," Jack replied as he inched closer to us. "But I wanted to make sure I wouldn't run into a trigger-happy law dog."

"Let him go. This isn't gonna help you any."

Jack stopped almost right next to me. "Oh, I think it will. You see, sheriff, I just never liked the thought of prison." He suddenly shoved Jim forward sending him straight into Sheriff Jacobs. At the same time, he raised his gun and fired it at Farris. Both men were thrown off balance, and it looked like Farris dropped his weapon. With the two lawmen otherwise occupied, Jack turned and rushed to where Boucher had left two mounts saddled and waiting. That tree right in front of my face kept me from seeing a lot, but I didn't have to see everything to know Jack jumped on one of them and rode off as fast as the horse would take him.

I heard Jacobs cuss and whipped my head back around. The sheriff had regained his footing, but Jack was already riding off. I wondered why Jacobs didn't take a shot at him and then realized he couldn't without putting me and Jim in the line of fire. What had seemed so reckless before was actually a pretty well thought out plan, or an incredibly lucky fluke. Either way, Jack was gone. Boucher, however, remained.

Jacobs gave Farris a look, and Farris nodded in return. From what I could see it looked like Jack's shot had hit the deputy, but it didn't appear to be too bad. It wasn't bad enough to distract the sheriff from Boucher anyway. "Your hostage is gone. You can either come out or I'll come get you."

There was a lull in which nothing was said, and I managed to get Buckley's attention. "Untie me," I hissed when he slowly edged over to me. He held up his own still cuffed hands. "Try," I hissed at him.

He rolled his eyes but started examining the rope. "You wouldn't happen to have a knife on you would you, old boy?"

I rolled my eyes this time. "Just untie me."

"What's it gonna be?" Jacobs yelled when there was no movement or sound from Boucher.

Boucher still didn't answer but I saw him step out from behind the cabin, his hands up. "I'm afraid there is nothing else to do but give up." He sort of smiled and in that smile, there was something I didn't like. I impatiently tugged on the rope binding my hands. The movement sent pain shooting through my back and shoulders, but I was getting desperate now. The truth was, I didn't feel particularly safe being in this position with Boucher still free. I wanted to feel like I could somewhat defend myself if need be.

"Come over here," Jacobs said.

"Why don't you come to me?"

"Get over here."

I felt like I was about to break my neck trying to see what was going on, but I kept twisting around as far as I could to keep my eyes on Boucher. I was surprised when he walked over to the sheriff without another word. I didn't trust the man and he was being far too amiable. Jacobs held out his own pair of cuffs and I was even more surprised when the major willingly extended his hands. Something was going on. There was no way Boucher was going to allow himself to just be hauled away.

Jacobs attached the iron to Boucher's left hand, but when he moved to take the right one, Boucher dropped his hand. I've seen it enough, and even done it a few times, to know what Boucher was doing. He had a derringer tucked in his sleeve. "Jacobs," I called in warning.

I don't know if he heard me, or if he saw the move himself, but he stepped for his own gun as he did so. He wasn't quite fast enough, though, and Boucher's gun was almost level with his head when a shot sounded. Boucher froze then slowly fell backward. When he hit the ground I saw the hole that went straight through his heart. Craning my neck around a little further, I could see Farris. He was up on his knees, his six shooter in his left hand. Jacobs turned and gave him a smile. "Thanks."

Farris nodded as he sat down heavily. "Welcome."

Jacobs then came over to me. He pulled out a knife and made quick work of cutting the rope around my hands. "I take it these are the men who kidnapped your brother."

"Yeah," I said wincing as I eased my arms down. "And we gotta get to him."

I tried to take a step and almost fell into Jacobs. My back really was hurting now, and my legs no longer seemed to be able to hold me up. "Easy," Jacobs said as he caught me and helped me down onto the ground.

"Bart's in there." I had to get to my brother; had to make sure he was still alive.

"You would be Buckley?" Jacobs asked Jim.

"That's right."

"Then stay with him. I'll see about the other one."

"Gotta help him," I said. I made a feeble attempt to get up, but the last two days of little food and less sleep, plus the beating had finally caught up with me, and my body was quick to tell me I wasn't going anywhere.

"I'll take care of it," Jacobs said. "What about the girl?"

"She's in there," Jim chimed in. "I'm afraid she's one of them."

Jacobs looked startled for a moment but then nodded as he reloaded his gun. "I'll take care of it."

I watched the sheriff enter the cabin and sent up a prayer that Bart was still able to be rescued.


	17. Chapter 17

**Bret's Story:**

I watched Jacobs enter the cabin and as much as I wanted to follow him, I didn't have the energy to get off the ground. Drawing my knees up I wrapped my arms around them and dropped my head over on my arms. I had to go see about Bart and find out what kind of shape he was in and I told myself I would do that just as soon as I could. I just needed a minute.

I'm not sure how long my minute lasted, but when I raised my head there was no sign of Jacobs or Farris. "Bart," I cried jumping to my feet. Actually, I tried to jump to my feet. The pain in my back had died down, but it made itself known again as soon as I moved. The unexpected spike of pain sent me back down on my rear.

"What are you doing?"

I would have rolled my eyes if they hadn't already been shut. I took several slow, deliberate breaths waiting for the pain to fade again before I looked up at Buckley. "I need to . . .to see Bart."

"Oh."

Oh? Sometimes I wonder if Buckley is the way he is just to annoy me, or if he's that way with everyone. I looked to the cabin door and thought about the amount of effort it was going to take to get off the ground and over there. I was guessing it was more than I was up to right now. I finally decided Buckley could make himself useful and reached a hand up, necessity winning out over pride. "Help me."

"What?"

"Help me get up. I need to check on Bart."

"My hands are still bound, old boy."

"That don't mean you're helpless."

Buckley heaved a sigh but helped pull me to my feet. I staggered some and was actually surprised when Buckley reached out to steady me. I guess he was capable of more than he thought. I nodded my thanks and staggered over to the cabin. Once inside I made my way to the bedroom and found Bart right where I'd left him. Jacobs was leaning over him and Farris had the girl off to the side. I caught her eye and she looked . . . well, I don't know what it was. It was almost guilt, but it didn't seem like that was quite right. Sorry maybe, but not particularly repentant.

I stiffly went over to the bed "How's he doin'?"

Jacobs looked up at me. "He could be better but it looks like he's holdin' on. Needs a doctor. How are you?"

"Fine." The sheriff raised his eyebrows. I sort of smiled and nodded towards Bart. "Better than him anyway." Actually, compared to Bart, I was doing great. It did seem like no matter how I moved, the whelps and bruises on my back were pulled, so it was next to Impossible to get comfortable, but in a few days, my back would be almost back to normal. At least I hoped it would. I wasn't sure exactly how much damage Boucher had done, but I didn't think it was bleeding much and I figured the fact that I could get up and move around was a pretty good sign things weren't too bad.

"I can't argue that," Jacobs said. "But it looks like you could use a doctor too. And so does Farris."

"Any ideas on gettin' him to one? Or any of us?" I asked wincing when I felt a twinge in my back. I couldn't imagine riding right now, and I knew that was out of the question for Bart.

"I was talking to Farris. He says there's a wagon out there. That'll be the easiest and quickest way. The alternative is to leave him here, ride fifteen miles into town, find the Doc, and then ride fifteen miles back out here."

I sighed. I didn't like the idea of jostling Bart around in a wagon in the condition he was in, but Jacobs was right. Bart needed help and he needed it soon, trying to get the doctor here would just take too long. "Alright, I guess given the alternative that's the best option." I glanced over at the girl. "What about her?"

The sheriff looked her way before turning back to me. "Don't know yet. According to your friend she was involved. We're takin' her in, but I need more of the story to make any decisions about charges. I need both you and your brother in better shape before that can happen."

I wanted to protest that I was fine but about the time I opened my mouth, I swayed. Jacobs grabbed my arm to keep me on my feet and I knew it would pointless to fight him. "Me and Farris can take care of the wagon. I think you need to get off your feet for a while."

"I'll stay in here and keep an eye on Bart," I said as I sank down on the bed, almost grateful I didn't have to try and persuade the man I was fine.

Jacobs nodded and went back out. Farris followed and I was relieved to see him take the girl with him. There was still a lot I wasn't sure about, but she had something to do with this and right now I didn't want to talk to her or have her around Bart.

It was about fifteen minutes later that Jacobs came back in, this time he was followed by Buckley, who had finally gotten out of his cuffs. "Alright, Maverick," the sheriff said. "The wagon's ready, and Buckley here is gonna help me get him out."

I got up with a wince. Every time I started to move around, the pain in my back returned. It would be nice to be able to sit down and not have to worry about moving again for a while. That would have to come after Bart was taken care of, though.

I stood out of the way while Jacobs and Buckley moved Bart out of the cabin and got him settled into the wagon. I still didn't like this plan, but there was nothing else to do. I wouldn't let him lay in that cabin for a few more hours, and riding was definitely out of the question, for both of us. After seeing that Bart was as comfortable as possible given the circumstances, I climbed up into the wagon with him. I was once more reminded of just how much abuse my back had been subjected to, but after a few grunts and groans and winces, I was able to find a spot beside Bart that was reasonably comfortable.

The trip back into town was uneventful but long and uncomfortable. It was impossible for me to lean against anything so I spent the trip mostly hunched over doing my best to tend to Bart, but even in that position, my back felt every jostle and bump of the wagon. By the time we made it to our destination I was fully aware of every mark Bryce had made and was starting to worry he might have done more damage than I first thought. Bart blessedly stayed out of it most of the ride. He stirred once or twice and mumbled something unintelligible every now and then, but I was confident he was largely unaware of anything.

Jacobs had been right when he said me, Bart, and Farris all needed the doctor, but there was no doubt who needed him the most. As soon as Doctor Henry James got a good look at us he had Bart in his exam room ready to remove a bullet. I wasn't allowed to stay with him, and for once I didn't care. Okay, I did care, but I was in no shape to do anything about it so I sat down and did what I was told.

While the doctor worked on Bart, Jacobs did what he could for me and Farris. It wasn't much but it would do until the doc could see us. Farris' wound was a simple in and out. No real damage, but he would need some stitches and wouldn't be using his arm for a few days. Mine wasn't that much different. The whip had bit into my skin more than I had first thought, but Jacobs' opinion was that they would heal up fine. In addition to that, there were plenty of whelps and bruises, and I didn't need a doctor to tell me I was going to be sore for a while.

The sheriff was still giving me his unofficial diagnosis when Doc came out of the exam room drying his hands on a towel. "Mr. Maverick?"

"How is he?" I asked not bothering to comment on the Mr. Maverick bit.

"He's doing well, considering."

"Considering what?" I'd been straddling a chair in the doctor's office but stiffly stood up now.

"Considering he spent more than a day carrying that bullet around in his gut." He looked at the sheriff. "Where's Will?"

Jacobs smiled. "He went back to the office as soon as I got him cleaned up some. I don't think he's in a hurry to have you poking around on him."

The doctor smiled too. "Probably not." He turned back to me. "Looks like you're next then. Sit back down and I'll see if I can improve on Mark's work."

"That's my cue to leave I think," the sheriff said. "I'll go warn Will he's going to have to deal with you sooner rather than later. And Maverick, I'm gonna to see what I can get out of the girl and get your friends Buckley's story too. See if I can start piecing things together."

I nodded as I eased back down in the chair and heard the doctor let out a low whistle when he moved in behind me. "Well, Mr. Maverick, you won't be sleeping on your back tonight."

"Good thing I never liked sleepin' on my back then."

As it turned out, Sheriff Mark Jacobs was a decent hand at doctoring, and the Doc didn't have too much left to do. There were a couple of places he cleaned again, mostly the spots that had bled, but he didn't have to torture me for long. After he was done cleaning everything he put some kind of salve all over my back. It had a wonderfully cooling effect and took away a lot of the ache and sting that had come from the cleaning. The best part of the ordeal was hearing him agree with Jacobs assessment of my conduction. He didn't foresee any of the marks leaving long-term scars, and he expected me to see some improvement in a couple of days.

"You look like you could use a good night's sleep," Doc said as he stood up.

I straightened, pleased to find his salve made moving easier. "I'd like to see Bart."

"You're welcome to see him, but he shouldn't wake up before tomorrow morning at the earliest. I think it'd do you more good to go back to your room and get a decent night's sleep. Or if you don't want to do that, you're welcome to use the sofa. I've spent more than one night on it."

I gave the doc a wan smile. "No, thanks, Doc, I'm not leaving my brother tonight."

I don't know if Doctor James saw I wasn't going to back down or he was just used to dealing with stubborn family members, but he didn't try to argue with me, just smiled and motioned for me to come along. I slowly followed him into the exam room and immediately moved over to where my brother lay. Bart was pale and sweat dotted his forehead but he looked like he was breathing easy and I didn't notice any of the tension lines that had been on his face at the cabin.

"He's really going to be okay?" I asked as I checked for fever. He was still a little warm, but I was surprised his head didn't feel anything hotter than it did.

"If he keeps doing the way he's doing now he should be. That bullet was in him longer than it should have been, but the wound was clean when he was brought in. Your work?"

I shook my head. No, that was the work of one of my brother's kidnappers. I thought about the girl again and wondered if the sheriff was making any headway with his questions. I wanted to know the whole story as to why my brother had to be sucked into this mess. I sighed heavily and dropped my head.

"He's resting well for now, Mr. Maverick. Which is what you need to be doing." The doctor gently took my arm and led me over to a chair. "You at least need to be off your feet."

"Bret," I said as I plopped down in the chair, straddling it and propping my arms on the back just as I had the one in the doctor's office.

"What?"

"My name's Bret. Mr. Maverick is my father."

Doc chuckled. "Alright, Bret. I have no objections to you staying here as long as you get some sleep yourself. Your injury may not be as severe, but you are injured and your body needs time to recover."

"Got it, Doc."

I tried to follow Doc's instructions but ended up sleeping fitfully all night. I probably would have slept better back in my room at the hotel, but I wanted to stay with Bart until he woke up. By the time the sun was starting to rise I'd given up on trying to get any more sleep while straddling that chair. I was so stiff and achy by now I was almost considering going back to my room. However, about that time, Doc came in with coffee and made me believe I could stand a few more hours with my brother.

"Sleep well?" Doc asked after handing the coffee off to me and going to Bart's bedside.

"As well as can be expected." I stiffly got to my feet, grunting when I tried to straighten. My back felt all tight again and any movement caused discomfort.

Doc started looking Bart over. "Probably would have been better if you'd slept in a bed."

"Probably, but I've slept in a chair plenty of times in the past. The problem is my back being tore up."

"Any chance of being able to give you something for the pain I know you're feeling now and getting you to leave for a while."

I smiled. "After I see Bart's okay, maybe."

The next few minutes passed in silence as Doc finished his exam and I finished my coffee. He was still leaning over Bart when he called my name.

"Yeah?"

"Did you mean that? About getting some real rest once you saw your brother was okay?"

"Well, I tell you Doc, the way I'm feeling' right now, yeah."

He smiled and motioned me over. "Then get over here."

I almost dropped my coffee and did hurt my back in my hurry to get to the bed, and I was met with a pair of brown eyes looking up at me warily. "Bart? How you doin', son? Actually, don't try to answer that. Just take it easy."

I could see the pain and anxiousness in the eyes that moved from me to the doctor and back again. "Wh-where . . . .?

"You're in Denver, Mr. Maverick, in my office. I'm Doctor James."

"It's alright, Bart. We're back in town. Boucher's dead and Jim's not."

The answers we provided seemed to settle Bart, and he sort of nodded before his eyes drifted shut again.

"Is he okay?" I asked anxiously.

Doc smiled as he nodded. "He's been through an ordeal, and sleep is the best thing for him. Speaking of sleep . . . . " He trailed off with a pointed look at me. "I understand if you don't want to go back to the hotel, but like I said, there's a sofa in my office I've spent more than one night on."

I finally nodded. "Alright, Doc, you win."

Doc smiled. "I'll put some more salve on first. It'll help you rest easier."

It was less than five minutes later Doc had me greased up again and settled in his office. He was right, his sofa was more comfortable than the straight backed chair, and I felt like I could really appreciate some rest now. It occurred to me as I drifted off that I'd been right back at the cabin; seeing Bart open his eyes had done me a world of good.


	18. Chapter 18

**Bart's Story:**

Things got a little fuzzy after Bryce jerked me to my feet. I didn't see much and only heard about half of what went on after that, and him slamming that rifle stock into my gut was the final straw. Darkness blessedly took me at that moment and the next thing I knew I was waking up in a doctor's office in Denver, with a very worried brother next to me. That had been five days ago, and I was starting to feel more like myself. My belly was still tender and would be for a while, but I was healing up and the pain wasn't as severe as it had been a few days ago.

Bret had been by my side almost constantly since I had first woken up, which wasn't a surprise. What was odd was I hadn't seen any sign of Jim. I did ask Bret about him yesterday but he'd just mumbled something about him most likely being out looking for a rich widow to scam. I took that to mean words had already been exchanged, and Bret had probably threatened Dandy to stay away. A believable scenario as Bret had been kind of testy the past couple of days anyway. I'd asked him, more than once, what was wrong, but he'd shrugged it off every time. I guess a lot of it probably had something to do with me. Bret has a bad habit of feeling guilty about things he doesn't have any reason to feel guilty about.

As much as I enjoyed having my brother around, tense or not, at this moment I was alone, and that was sort of nice too. According to the doc, he'd sent Bret out to get something to eat while I'd been asleep earlier. I was surprised Bret had left while I was asleep, but he's been pretty cooperative with this doctor for some reason. Anyway, Doc helped me eat some kind of broth – we were still taking things easy on my stomach – and then he left me alone for a while. He said something about needing to check on another patient and told me he thought it would do me good to stay in a semi-upright position while he was gone if I felt up to it. I'd readily agreed, ready to be off my back and awake for a while.

It had seemed like a great idea when Doc suggested it, but fifteen minutes or so after Doc left, I was starting to question my decision. I wasn't regretting my choice to stay up, but I was becoming more aware of the pain in my belly and there was no one here to take my mind off of it. If only there was someone here to talk to. Actually, any kind of distraction to take my mind off the discomfort I was feeling would be nice. Almost on cue, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," I called, wondering who it could be. So far Doc hadn't knocked on the door like that, and it didn't seem like something Bret would do either. I wasn't expecting Jim to open the door, but I was glad to see him, and he was smiling brightly as he strolled in.

"Are you quite sure it's safe?" he asked.

I smiled, his question only confirming my earlier suspicions. "For a while. Doc sent him out to eat."

Jim flipped the chair Bret had been sitting in around. "Splendid," he said wiping the seat of the chair off before sitting down. "We'll have a few moments of peace at least." Resting his hands on his walking stick he gave me a long look. "Well, old boy, you're starting to look almost human again. A great improvement since the last time I saw you."

"Startin' to feel almost human again too. When was the last time you saw me? Haven't seen you around much."

"Yes, well, I don't believe Bret appreciates my presence."

I didn't bother to ask what had happened between the two of them; I wouldn't get an unbiased opinion out of either one of them. I know both of them well enough to understand they each have a talent for rubbing the other the wrong way. They would both deny it until their dying breath, but they were probably both at least partially to blame for whatever had gone on between them. Frankly, I think they both need to grow up a little where dealing with each other is concerned.

"How are you really feeling, Bart?"

I could tell by his face it was a serious question and I answered as best I could. "Better. Still hurts, but as long as I don't move around too much, it's bearable. I haven't had any laudanum today." I was pretty proud of that, although that was a situation that was likely to change as the day wore on. I hate laudanum and I would be glad when I wouldn't need it at all anymore.

"A vast improvement over just a few days."

I nodded and grimaced as I shifted some. "Bret will probably want me to take some when he gets back, though." The worst part about that was the doc would probably back his opinion. I might be able to argue with one of the other, but if they teamed up against me I wouldn't stand a chance.

Jim sighed. "Yes, big brother can be quite the authoritarian, can't he?"

"Come on, Jim. He's not that bad." Jim grunted noncommittally. "Although, he has been a little . . . off lately."

"I should imagine so."

The comment was muttered under his breath, almost like he didn't want me to hear it, except I did hear it. "What does that mean?"

Jim shrugged. "Oh, you know; the whole debacle with Boucher."

The problem was, I didn't know the whole debacle with Boucher. Bret hadn't said much about what had gone on after Bryce had hit me that last time. He'd given me some explanation about the man threatening to kill him and Dandy, and the sheriff locating the cabin just in time, but he'd been vague about the details. Listening to Jim now, I was getting the feeling big brother hadn't told me a lot. "What exactly did happen?" I asked hoping I sounded nice and innocent.

Jim gave me a funny look. "Why, the beating and everything."

"Beating?" I tried to sit up but abandoned that as soon as the sharp pain shot through my gut. "Wh-what do you mean . . . beating?"

"Bret's sentence from that farce of a court-martial Boucher put him through."

"What sentence?"

Jim gave me that look again. "He hasn't told you?"

"Told me what?"

Jim sighed. "Well, I suppose I just gave your brother another reason to dislike me."

I was starting to get agitated now. I was just uncomfortable enough to be testy, and I wasn't in the mood to listen to Dandy talk in circles. "What are you talkin' about, Jim?"

"Well, after that brute did his work on you Boucher insisted on your brother answering to these charges against him; dereliction of duty or something like that. Naturally, he was found guilty, and Boucher sentenced him to forty lashes and death by firing squad."

Jim said it all so calmly that it took a minute for me to comprehend everything he said. Then it hit me. "He whipped Bret? Forty lashes? How . . . why . . . why didn't you do somethin'?"

"What was I supposed to do? He had me bound, and he was planning to kill me, too."

I leaned back on the pillow and blew out as deep of a breath as I dared to. I knew Jim had a point, and he's not a hero, but still, this was my brother we were talking about. "Forty?" I couldn't imagine. I saw a man get beat in Douglas once; no wonder Bret had been acting strangely. A beating would explain the stiff way he'd been moving and why he'd been straddling that chair every time he sat down. I should have realized something was wrong before. I glanced back at Jim. "Forty?"

"He didn't get all forty in," Jim said casually. "It couldn't have been more than ten strokes and he held up quite well during the ordeal."

"It was eleven."

Jim and I turned toward the door and saw a less than happy looking Bret Maverick standing there. He was sending Dandy a look that would have made Pappy proud, and the tension coming off of him was almost tangible.

"Do you ever stop running your mouth?" he snapped as he walked into the room. He was still moving stiffly, and I noticed for the first time he wasn't dressed quite right. No jacket, no vest, just a shirt, and even that wasn't buttoned up all the way. I wondered just how much damage had been done if he couldn't even get dressed all the way, and I felt a pang of guilt for not having noticed any of this before.

Jim cleared his throat. "Bart was inquiring, and I was answering. One could hardly call that running one's mouth."

"I can answer any questions he has."

"Can you? It doesn't appear you've been in a hurry to do that."

"Jim, stop it," I said softly. I could see an argument rapidly forming, and I wasn't in the mood for one.

"I'll answer anything he wants when he's ready." The answer came out as little more than a growl and I knew Bret was close to letting Jim have it.

"Bret, quit."

"And you are the authority on when he'll be ready?"

"He's barely sitting up now. He doesn't need . . . ."

"Both of you stop now."

"I have to agree with Mr. Maverick." I breathed a sigh of relief as Doctor James came in. He gave my two visitors a glare. "You do need to stop it. Now." Bret continued to glare at Jim, and Jim had that indifferent look that irritates Bret so much. "Bart is my patient and I'm well within my rights to tell anyone I feel is hampering his recovery to leave my office." He gave Bret another look. "And I do mean anyone. Bart, do you want them to leave?"

I shook my head. "No, Doc. They're fine so long as they shut up for a minute."

He nodded and looked between Bret and Jim again. "You two are here because Bart wants it, but that is the only reason you have to be here. You'll both do well to remember that." He pointed at Bret. "You may be a patient, but you're not in bad enough shape that you need to stay here. Now, can I expect you gentleman to act in a civilized manner?"

The doctor was barely older than any of us, but Bret answered with a "Yes, sir, " and Jim nodded once. I relaxed knowing they were done for now; Bret certainly wouldn't risk the doctor throwing him out. The answers must have been good enough for Doc because after giving everyone another look he left the room.

After a long minute, it was Jim that finally spoke. "I shall take my leave now. Take care, Bart."

"See ya, Jim."

Bret waited until we were alone before he came over to the bed. He flipped the chair back around and sat down. "Bart, I . . . ." He trailed off like he wasn't sure what to say. I guess he wasn't.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't tryin' to keep it from you, Bart, I . . . . When did you want me to tell you? As soon as you woke up from gettin' a bullet dug outta your gut? I wasn't hidin' it, it's just . . . you almost died. I guess me gettin' beat up on didn't seem that important in comparison."

"I'll buy that. But this ain't the first time you didn't think you was important enough to talk about."

"What's that mean?"

"You never said anything about Arizona either." I was a little put out Jim had been the one to tell me about Bret's beating, but I understand Bret's reasoning. If our roles had been reversed I probably would have done the same thing. Arizona I wasn't so understanding about. Nearly an entire scouting party had been killed, a party Bret was supposed to be a part of, and he'd never thought it worth mentioning.

He gave me a funny look. "There was nothin' to tell."

"Nearly everyone died; you should have been there. You didn't think I would care about that? Or Pappy?"

Bret gazed at me impassively. "No, I didn't." He held up a hand to cut off the protest I was about to make and went on. "We were in the army, we were fighting; men died. We'd just come out of a war and then the prison; it's just the way life was then. I wasn't there, and nothing happened to me. It was a tragedy, but no more so than anything else that happened during those five years."

Okay, I couldn't argue that, as much as I wanted to. "What about you gettin' sick?"

Bret sort of smiled. "What about it? I got sick and I got over it. Again, nothin' to tell."

"Sick enough that you had to stay in the infirmary."

"And? Come on, Bart, you're actin' like I've never been sick before. Well, I have. Remember the Scarlet Fever, or that time Ben played poker with that guy and we all ended up sick? What about when Pappy and Ben went to Huston and you and Beau decided that you could do whatever you wanted to because I barely knew what day it was?"

I gave him a look. He knew good and well I remembered all of that. "That's different."

"No, it's not. So why don't you tell why you're really upset because I know it's not because I was sick and you didn't know about it." He sighed. "If it's about Buckley, I'm sorry . . . ."

"No," I said quickly. I didn't like what had happened with Jim but I'd felt edgy before. It wasn't even Arizona, although I do think Bret should have told us about what happened, it was more this entire mess. I'd been shot, Bret had been beaten, and I'd almost lost a friend, and for what? Some crazy, and imaginary, vendetta. "I don't know it's just . . . ."

Bret sighed again. 'You got a right to be upset. I'm upset; he did almost kill my brother, but he's dead. They have, or will, all pay for what they did. Well, almost all."

Jack. According to the sheriff, no one had seen hide nor hair of the man since he'd made his getaway. A warrant was out for him, but we all knew it probably wouldn't do any good. He was likely well out of Colorado by now. The law would probably catch up with him one day for one thing or another, but at least the ones who had caused the most trouble were dead. As for Charity . . . .

"You heard anything about what's gonna happen to the girl?"

Bret scoffed. "Do you care?"

"Yes."

Bret's eyes had gone dark, a sure sign he was edging toward unhappy. "Bart . . . ."

"How many times do I have to tell you it's not like that?" It came out a little snappier than I'd intended, but really, am I that bad? Bret was still straddling that chair. Did he think I didn't notice or I'd forgotten why he had to do that?

"What is it then?" he asked quietly. Snappy or not, my words seemed to take some of the fight out of him

I shrugged. Doc told me the wound being cleaned had probably kept infection at bay. Yeah, she'd helped kidnap me, but she'd taken care of me too. None of the others had put forth any effort to make things easier for me. "She saved my life. Maybe she didn't save it but she did keep things from gettin' as bad as they could have been." I shrugged again. "I don't know, Bret. I don't think she's a killer and I don't want her treated like one."

"Well, I don't think anyone is gonna try to get her hung." Bret still wasn't happy, but he wasn't arguing. Probably because he knew I was right, even if he didn't like it.

"She in jail?"

"Yep."

He sounded a little too pleased about that for my taste but I didn't say anything. I looked down and picked at a loose thread on the quilt. "I want to see her."

"No."

I jerked my head back up. I'd expected resistance, but not such a blatant no. "It's not your choice," I said tightly.

"Maybe not, but you don't need to see her."

"I think I can make that decision for myself." He was doing it again, getting the pappy syndrome. This was exactly the attitude that had made me want to get off by myself, to begin with. I wondered if Bret remembered that. It's not that I don't appreciate Bret wanting to protect me, or that I don't value his opinion, but this really had nothing to do with him. I wasn't a child, and he wasn't going to dictate what I could or couldn't do. If I wanted to see Charity again, I would. With or without Bret's help.


	19. Chapter 19

**Bart's Story:**

"Anything else?" The question came from Sheriff Jacobs.

I thought for a minute and shook my head. "No, I think that about covers it."

The sheriff put away the pad he'd been writing on and stood. "I appreciate this, Bart," he said as he offered his hand. "I know you probably didn't feel up to this, but I couldn't move things forward with the trial until I had everyone's statements."

"It's alright," I told the lawman giving his hand a firm shake. "I understand."

Jacobs was right: I didn't feel up to this. Three days after Bret and Jim's . . . disagreement, Doc decided I was doing well enough to move into the hotel, and that had been yesterday. I was a lot better than I'd been a week ago, but there was still a good bit of recovering to do. But I'd been honest when I said I understood. The sheriff needed that statement from me, and if telling my story was what was needed to wrap this thing up, I was willing to tell it, even if the last hour or so had left me drained and ready for some rest.

"I'll get this wrote up and bring it over for you to sign; should be ready tomorrow."

"Thanks, Sheriff." Jacobs tipped his hat and started to leave, but before he got to the door I called him back. "You ever decide on charges for the girl?" I was still more than a little curious about Charity, although I hadn't mentioned her since my disagreement with Bret.

Jacobs paused. "I'd say she's looking at accessory to kidnapping possibly attempted murder."

I was glad to hear attempted murder. I'd found out a couple of days ago the other patient Doc kept going to see was the stage driver. He was looking at an even longer recovery than me, but it appeared he was going to recover. "Thanks, Sheriff."

"Anything else?"

"No. I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

Jacobs tipped his hat again and left. A couple of minutes later there was a soft knock on the door and Bret came back in. He'd stayed away for my story, and I didn't blame him. Telling it had left me tired and antsy; I imagined reliving that nightmare, again, was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Get everything taken care of?" he asked.

"I think so. I'll have to sign something tomorrow, but that should be all."

Bret nodded. If I thought he'd been on edge before, it was nothing compared to how he'd been the last three days. Ever since he'd walked in on mine and Jim's talk, he'd been more uptight than ever. He helped me when it was needed and did what he could for me, but conversation had been kept to a minimum. He hadn't said a word about Boucher or the cabin or Charity, or anything else relating to our ordeal.

"Jacobs said those statements should be enough evidence for the judge. He doesn't think we'll be needed for the trial."

Bret nodded again. "Yeah, that's what he said."

For Bret's sake, I was hoping the sheriff was right. Before leaving Doc's I'd been able to see Jim again, and this time I'd made him tell me the whole story. He'd done a better job of it this time around, and by the time he was finished, I understood why Bret was so upset. He was actually the main reason I was willing to talk to Jacobs today. I figured the sooner we could put all this behind us, the sooner I'd get my brother back.

An awkward silence settled between us. There had been a lot of those moments over the last couple of days. I felt like we were both tiptoeing around each other and was about getting sick of it, but I understood Bret's awkwardness. I'd just been shot and unconscious, unpleasant as it had been, I'd had it easy compared to what Bret had gone through; Boucher's crazy court martial, being flogged and threatened with death. He'd spent a lot of time worrying about me too. Between the two of us, he'd had more to deal with.

I finally cleared my throat. There was something that had been eating at me the last few days and I was about ready to give into it. I would need help though, and Bret was the most obvious choice. He was also the one who would be the least willing. "Bret?"

"Yeah?" he asked sitting down. He didn't straddle the chair, but I noticed he still wasn't leaning back.

"Sheriff said he'd bring my statement over for me to sign tomorrow, but I was thinkin' about maybe tryin' to go to his office myself."

"You can't do that. You're not ready for a walk like that."

"Why? Doc told me to get some exercise."

"Walkin' down the hall or downstairs. The sheriff's office is . . . four blocks down. You're not ready."

For once I didn't take offense at Bret's protectiveness. One was because of his tone, but mostly because he was absolutely right. I probably wasn't ready, and I would likely get a similar reaction from Doctor James if he were here to hear about it. I knew I'd probably come to regret it, but that didn't mean I wasn't willing to try. "I could do it with help."

Bret sighed. "And you're askin' for help?"

"Yeah, I am."

A heavier sigh came from Bret before he pushed out of the chair and stalked to the window. "This is because of that girl, isn't it?" he said after a long pause. His posture was stiff and I could hear the same edge that had been in his voice the last time Charity had been mentioned.

"Yes."

"Bart, why . . . ."

"Before you say anythin' else, Bret, I'm not a child. You aren't allowed to tell me who I can and can't see."

Bret was quiet a minute then, "I know." He turned back around. "I didn't mean . . . it's . . . why? Why is it so important that you see her?"

"That's just it, Bret. I want to know why. Why she did all this." I thought after listening to Jim I might see things Bret's way, but I didn't. I still wanted to see her. If I thought she was a puzzle before, she was even more so now. I just wanted to know why? Why she'd gone along with her uncle's insane plot, why she'd helped me, why she'd done any of it. I understood Bret wanting to leave it all behind, but I needed a little more closure, and I thought Charity could give me that.

"I thought you'd talked to Buckley again. He didn't tell you everythin'?" Bret hadn't hung around the last time Jim had come by but I knew he had a good idea of what we'd talked about.

"Yeah, most of it, but I want to hear it from her."

"Why?"

"I don't know." I shrugged. "I guess I'm just curious about a girl who doesn't mind kidnapping and murder but goes out of her way to try to save one of them after the fact. You've talked to Doc, Bret. She probably saved my life out there."

Bret smiled but there wasn't much humor in it. "Well, it was you, Brother Bart. You ought to be used to women doin' crazy things for you by now."

I sort of smiled back. "I'm just lookin' for some answers, and I think she can give me some."

There was another long pause. "Nothin' I can say is gonna change your mind, is it?"

I shook my head. "No. I understand you want it over, so do I, but don't think it can be over until I can talk to her again. At least not for me. Can you understand that?"

Bret stared at the floor and for a moment I didn't think I was going to get an answer, but he finally looked up. "No, I can't understand. But I can accept it." A ghost of a smile came to his face. "I might as well help you. If I don't you'll just do it anyway and make my life more difficult than it is now."

I could return his smile for real this time. "That's right, Brother Bret. I probably would."

XXXXXX

My plan was ambitious; I'd known it was ambitious yesterday when I thought it up, but I didn't understand just how ambitious it was until I made it down the stairs the next morning. I was having serious doubts about whether or not I was going to be able to make to the sheriff's office when I saw the buggy.

"Your idea?" I asked Bret as he led me over.

He shrugged. "I figured you wouldn't make it otherwise."

I have to say, I was surprised. The best word I could think of to describe Bret this morning was resigned. He hadn't tried to talk me out of going, but he wasn't exactly hiding his displeasure. I wasn't sure if it was because he didn't think I was physically ready for this, or because of Charity; probably a little of both. Still, I was surprised he hadn't just got me as far as I could go then got me back to the room with an I told you so. Putting forth this kind of effort was more like Bret normally acted, but the last few days he'd been anything but normal. Maybe he was starting to relax and realize we were both going to be fine, even if I did talk to Charity.

Nothing else was said until Bret stopped the buggy in front of the sheriff's office. He tied the reins off and heaved a sigh before turning towards me. "You sure you wanna do this?"

"Yes," I said firmly.

Bret sighed again as he climbed down and I wondered yet again just why he was so bothered by this.

"Thanks," I said as he helped me down. He nodded stiffly in reply. I had a cane the doc had given me to help me get around the next couple of weeks, so I didn't have much of a problem with keeping steady, but Bret hovered at my elbow all the way to the door anyway. Watching him, I almost felt bad about this whole thing. One look at his face would tell most anyone this was the last place on earth he wanted to be and he was only here because of me.

Jacobs was bent over his desk and looked up when we walked in. "Bret." He sounded surprised. He sounded even more surprised when he saw me. "Bart." He rose from his chair and shook hands with both of us. "What are you two doin' here?"

"Well, this one's actin' like a fool. And I'm the fool that's helpin' him," Bret said giving the sheriff a wan smile.

"Actually, I'm here to sign your statement, sheriff," I said making use of one of the chairs in front of the man's desk.

"I woulda brought it to you," Jacobs said as he took some papers out of his desk and passed them to me. "Read over it and make sure everything looks alright."

Reading it again made me feel more than a little unsettled, but I knew it needed to be done. If it was going to be used as evidence it had to be right. "Looks fine," I said when I was finished.

Jacobs handed me a pen. "Then just sign and date it."

"There's somethin' else I'd like," I told him as I passed the signed statement back to him. "I'd like to see your prisoner."

Jacobs' eyebrows went up. "Miss Moss?"

"Yes, sir."

"I guess there's no reason you shouldn't. Come this way." Jacobs got his keys and went over to the door separating the cells from the office.

''I'll wait outside if you don't mind," Bret said quietly as he helped me up. I nodded. I could tell this was taking a toll on him, but I wasn't sure why. Once I finished with Charity, I told myself I'd work on Bret.

I followed the sheriff into the next room. There was only one prisoner, and she looked up as soon as we entered. I saw her eyes widen as she stood up.

Jacobs disappeared into his office and returned seconds later with a chair. "Holler when you're ready to come out." He put the chair down and then left. It was only then that Charity spoke.

"Bart. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. I got a few things to ask you."

"Oh. Like what?"

I sat down. "Like why?'

"You know why."

"Your cousin? You can't really believe that, Charity. You can't believe Bret deserved to die for that."

"I told you. He didn't say anything about killing him."

"Just flogging him?" Charity didn't answer. "What did he say?"

"Thomas needed justice."

I sighed. I wasn't getting far. So far the only thing she'd said was what she'd been saying all along. "Boucher said Thomas didn't know him growin' up. Did you?"

"Frank? No. Our mothers, mine and Thomas' were sisters. Aunt Cora came back home after she was able to get her divorce. Thomas was like my brother, and after my mother died, he and Cora were pretty much all the family I had left. It broke Cora's heart when we received word Thomas had been killed. She never wanted him to be in the army anyway. I think it was the broken heart that killed her."

I watched her closely while she talked. I could almost feel sorry for her, but I couldn't hear much emotion in her voice. No remorse or sadness at all, just the facts. "And?" I prompted after a long pause.

"Frank contacted me after Cora passed away. He told me he knew who was responsible for Thomas' death, and the army didn't plan on doing anything to him. But he said we could bring him to justice if we worked together."

"Bret?" Charity nodded. "He didn't kill your cousin, Charity. Surely you know that by now."

"Thomas is dead and no one was ever held responsible for that. He may not have done the killing but if he'd done his job . . . . "

"He was sick. He couldn't do his job."

"I didn't want him dead."

"So it was okay for your uncle to kidnap and beat him, as long as he didn't kill him?"

It took Charity a minute to reply. "Thomas was like a brother to me."

"And Bret is my brother. Charity, don't you understand? If Thomas was like your brother, then you know what it feels like to lose one. Did you really want me to lose mine?"

"It was about seeing justice done."

"By flogging him? That's not justice; the army doesn't even do that anymore and they haven't for years."

Charity looked away from me and I sighed realizing I wasn't going to get anywhere with this.

Charity looked sorry, but for what? I remember back when I was about eight or nine, having a talk with Pappy and him telling me there was a difference in being sorry you did something and being sorry you got caught. I had a feeling Charity was sorry she was in jail, not necessarily that she'd kidnapped a man or almost gotten him killed.

"I'm sorry your cousin was killed, but it wasn't Bret's fault. Do you understand that?"

She finally looked at me again. "I'm sorry you got mixed up in all this."

It wasn't lost on me that she hadn't answered my question. I'd told Bret I wanted some answers, and I had them now. I was afraid I was going to come in here and find a hysterical woman, horrified at the prospect of going to jail and terribly repentant for what she had done. I hadn't found that. I still didn't think she was a killer, and she probably had saved my life, but I wasn't convinced she believed what had happened to Bret was wrong. I wasn't sure I could make her see that either. I slowly pushed myself up, grateful for the cane Doc was insisting I use. "I'm sorry too, Charity." I'd gotten what I'd come for, there wasn't any reason to hang around. "Good luck."

Bret was leaning against the buggy when I hobbled out of the sheriff's office. He straightened when he saw me and hurried over to help me. "That was fast," he commented as he helped me back into the buggy.

"Not a lot to say."

Bret hesitated. "Did you find out what you wanted to know?"

"I did." He didn't ask about anything else and I didn't offer.

"You feel up to ridin' for a while?" he asked after he'd joined me in the buggy.

"Sure." I was feeling alright at the moment but even if I hadn't been I wouldn't have refused. Unless I was reading him wrong, Bret was about to open up to me.

Bret urged the horse on and headed out of town. The next fifteen minutes passed in silence, and I was starting to think I'd been wrong about him being willing to talk. He finally sighed. "Bart . . . I'm sorry I've been kind of a jerk lately."

"You had your reasons."

"There wasn't any call to take it out on you, though. I don't have the right to tell you who you can talk to, be it Buckley or . . . ."

"Miss Moss?" Bret nodded stiffly. I took a good look at him; most of the visible wounds had healed, but emotionally, maybe even mentally, Bret still had a ways to go. Now that I knew that, I wanted to know why, if only to give me some idea as to how I could help him. "You want to tell me why that bothered you so much?"

He smiled and shrugged. "Because sometimes I'm overprotective and forget it's been a long time since you needed me to hold your hand crossin' the street?"

"Is that a question?" That actually got a chuckle out of him. The first I'd heard in a while. "Really, Bret, what was the reason?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just ready to put this whole thing behind me. I figured the best way to do was leave it all where it was. I couldn't understand you not thinkin' the same way."

"I still think there's somethin' else eatin' at you, though."

"You just don't give up, do you?"

"Not when I can tell something's bothering my brother."

That silence fell again, eventually broken by another heavy sigh. "She's just too close to him, to all of it. I want to forget about the whole thing."

"You mean Boucher?"

"Yeah." I didn't ask any more questions and was surprised when Bret pulled the buggy off the road a couple of minutes later. He secured the horse and then propped his elbows on his knees. "You remember how it felt in Douglas? Like we were less than animals. Like they just couldn't wait for us to die and get out of their way?"

"Yeah," I said softly. A man doesn't forget something like that. Ever. I remembered only too well the stench, the sickness, that slop that passed as food, the freezing nights, and all the taunts that let us know exactly how they felt about rebels. Most of all I remembered the hopelessness and all the times I wondered if I'd live ever to see home again. Looking at Bret I knew he was thinking along the same lines.

"After Douglas and then the army . . . When we finally made it home, I told myself I'd never let a man make me feel like that again." He finally looked at me and gave me a wan smile. "He did it. He said he wanted to break me, and he did. He had me snapping to attention and calling him sir; he planned on killing me and I did whatever he told me."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"He had me on my knees, Bart, while he held all our lives in his hand. And I just obeyed."

"But he's dead now." Bret looked over at me. "You said that yourself. He's dead, and we're not. There's no shame in tryin' to stay alive, Bret. There wasn't when we were in the army, and there's not now. Well, we're still alive, and he can't pay any more than he already has."

Bret looked at me for a while before he smiled slightly. "I guess I'm bein' pretty stupid then."

I returned the smile. "You said it not me."

"You'd be right if you did say it."

"Look, you don't have to be ashamed of any of this . . . ."

"I'm not ashamed of it, I just . . . I just want to forget about it."

"Okay. If you want it over with, then it's over."

"It's over."

"Right," I agreed. I watched his face carefully, looking for any sign something was wrong. I guess Pappy taught him too well, though, because I had a feeling the only thing showing on that poker face was exactly what Bret wanted me to see. "So, we're okay?"

This smile showed off his dimples. "Yeah."

"And you're okay?"

He nodded. "Never better."

I didn't believe that. Bret had been too on edge for too long for him to suddenly be alright, but I knew I wasn't getting anything else out of him. He'd told me what he'd planned on telling me, and that was it. I'd let him get away with it for now, though. "So now what?" I asked. "I mean now that this is over."

Bret shrugged. "Well, before all this, we'd planned on traveling around and playing some poker. Seems like that's as good an idea as any. As soon as you're able that is."

"What about Jim?"

"I thought we might could sneak out in the night without him knowing it."

Bret was smiling when he said it, but I was sure he'd meant every word. "I'm askin' him to come."

Bret rolled his eyes. "I thought you weren't mad anymore," he mumbled as he picked the reins back up and pointed the horse towards town.

I watched him with a badly concealed smile. It looked like Bret was back, marginally anyway. It would take time for the scars, both mental and physical, to heal and it was something that would happen at Bret's pace. Maybe I could get him to tell me more, and maybe I couldn't, either way, I was going to have to take what I could get, and for now, that was good enough. I had other things to worry about now. Like how to keep Bret and Jim from killing one another should Jim decide to stay with us; I had a feeling he'd hang around a while just to make things hard for Bret.

I felt better than I had in some time as we drove back to town. We'd almost come full circle from where this whole mess started, and I could only hope the miles that lay ahead would be a whole lot smoother than the ones we were leaving behind.

The End


End file.
